Old Paint in Old Tin Can

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This poem uses a new type of poetry form called "Bookends" with lines, that are exactly the same length, forming a square image shape, center indented in the center of the page.

"Even old paint, left to dry-out and be forgotten, can heal the peels and bubbles once in despair, deemed unworthy of repair." - quote by author.

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I pried with a screw-driver driven into a lid sealed with age, and rust, to crack open a callous retribution, set aside, tombed over. I was curious to learn how much remained and in what condition. Up came the lid with a gurgle, fizz, hiss, expelled with age smell. The paint on top, had dried, to a skin, a curd, a viscous scum of strange foreign color that did not auger well for its pending redemption. I poked through the thin skin, scooping it out, to reveal the paint separated into its primary colors. Once, thrice stirred, it slowly rejigged into its original color and form, ready to adorn marks on the wall, scraped and sanded ready for a fix, now all's done dusted, and forgiven.

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