Blank Canvas
A blank canvas
That is me
The unmade bed
The formaldehyde
I can have it all
A pure white frame
That is me
The dissected shark
How I suffer for my art
Only just begun
The paint pallet
Untouched, until
I paint my eyes
Below the brow
A shade for an occasion
I could follow any path
Too young to fret where it leads
Against a wall, I start to sleep
Aged and flaking
That will be me
The oak tree evaporated
Set in stone, a fountain
The zest for life drying
A frame stained by hands
That will be me
The aging process
Stained in silent protest
Nearing the end
The paint flaked
Touched, until
I paint the wrinkles
Now no one wants me
A shade of white for an apparition
I regret each path
Too old to complain, a vault for a tomb
The aging process from canvas, from womb
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