Canvas
On an empty canvas,
with infinite strokes to be,
the brush finds purpose,
No matter how simple, He
restlessly slides
on the A3 ice,
He hasn't the time,
to question what it does,
He hasn't the time,
To think of a purpose,
On an empty canvas,
with infinite strokes to be,
the brush finds purpose...
Until a few years pass by,
And every stroke rests upon another,
Patterns emerge on the empty canvas,
Sections emerge on the empty canvas,
And the brush now has to think,
About the restless slides,
As the A3 ice,
Is bled in ink.
And now he sits,
wondering, how it all came to be,
And why it came to be,
Or by whom it came to be,
For he now has the luxury,
To ponder if all was for naught,
For when there was nothing but naught,
There was only the A3.
On an empty canvas,
with infinite strokes to be,
the brush finds purpose...
The friction of coherence,
Makes the slides a little weak,
Every further stroke now must improve,
Or the stroke was vain and bleak,
Until they stop altogether,
Only questions left to speak.
There is no empty canvas, anymore,
Is every stroke really meant to be?
The ice melts into colors,
What do these colors mean?
Alone, the brush sits tightly, imagining
An empty canvas where he
has infinite strokes that can be.