Blank Space Craft
The dark spill muddied my canvas:
Made its mess, dislocated light
And thoughtful lines to the edges
While it claimed the center for spite.
It seemed like all was wrecked.
The time I'd worked nightly
To craft something perfect
(Or at least not unsightly)
Laid to waist.
A vision erased.
But then, I spied a photo of the original.
I thought it would be pretty, as a picture.
Instead, I noticed flaws so visible
They would lead a critic to stricture.
It looked off-colored or drab in places.
Contrived and technically bad.
Downright mediocre and graceless.
My memory of the thing had
Rendered more precious and dear
The plainness this new light made clear.
An impression most unimpressive.
The thing once grieved not worth its mourning.
No longer the crafter obsessive
Or wracked with yearning.
What a stroke of luck!
Now on to scrape the surface
Or from a new layer construct
An entirely new interface.
The choice entirely my own
Blank space for the unknown…
With no room left for you.
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