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?

Exceptional!!
LikeLike