The Canvases Speak
The air is thick with dust and whispers,
shadows stretch like long-forgotten hands.
In the art room, the canvases wait—
some bold, some broken, all unwilling to be silent.
A sunset canvas shouts first,
its colours bleeding, desperate—
“I was fire once! I burned the sky!
Now I am nothing but fading light.”
A storm looms beside it, violent, raw,
its waves clawing at the frame.
"I rage, I roar, yet I am trapped!"
"Who will sail my waters? Who will drown in my night?"
An old woman watches from another painting,
her eyes hollow, lips pursed in secret.
"They painted my smile, but not my sorrow."
"Look deeper—do you see me now?"
And then, in the corner—unfinished, trembling—
a blank canvas breathes in the silence.
Half-formed figures whisper in the mist of paint.
“I am not yet. I am becoming.”
The room shudders, the colours pulse,
stories scream from their frames,
aching to be seen, desperate to be heard—
but will you listen?
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