I

Here stands a canvas screaming

Onto the screen its identity.

They, the hims and hers,

The plethora of colours

That constitute my world,

That splash upon me,

Adding and adding,

Never fading,

Never leaving I to be

A wasteland after They’ve whirled,

They, the canvas whines,

Are the ones that make me.

Then the canvas smiles.

‘Tis a rainbow tornado

I am followed by at all times,

But it never breaks,

It only builds.

The colours constantly combine,

A cacophony never cumbersome

Constructed on my heart,

With endless hues, some red, some lime,

Some vile, some handsome,

All of them art.

Then the canvas stands silent.

It knows it’s not the prettiest,

Polluted by its own petty aspirations.

But on it are the marks of relations,

Left by the best of the best,

On a blank canvas, a constant

Standing there for Them

As they stand for the miscreant,

The miserable little canvas,

The receptacle of their love,

Intentions and ideas.

One day it won’t stand anymore,

It won’t scream, whine or smile.

It won’t be there for Them to pour

Pink and blue on the canvas fertile.

Just another one laid inside the floor,

Just another profile.

But it’ll have been painted till death

With the hues of the tornado.

Rejoice at the only right death

For a canvas to live through!

When that happens, admire the picture,

Witness greatness in front of you!

Work thine eyes upon its beauty,

In all the tones of its journey.

I am a canvas, it bellows,

And They bestow upon me their rainbows!

I am the canvas, and I am with them whole,

The greatest work of art of all.