My life’s on an easel

crisp and white,

endless possibilities

to bring it to light.

I sit as the painter

acrylics in hand,

adding colours to the canvas

with the passing of sand.

I paint colours of envy

of pain, of mirth,

of the darkness of deaths

and tenderness of birth.

I look at some colours

and wish to erase all the strife,

but all of the colours

have clung to my life.

An artist’s bound to fill colours

put no boundaries at all,

but if we’re bound to be boundless

are we boundless at all?