The Canvas

We are a blank canvas, lines scratched onto a piece of canvas.

Each and Every new day, like magic, colors stroke and fill the lines,

forming brilliant streaks and movement, spreading like spider webs across the day.

Some days treat you with bright hues, excited sunny colors that make you dream of summer.

Some days drop like tears on the canvas, dreary dark saturates, smearing the lines.

Days go by, color can splash you, mark your skin with beautiful flecks,

Color can confuse you, internally mixing, slabbed on in thick disfiguring layers, one after the other calcifying.

Color can allure you, red flushing on the cheeks, a lover's lipstick, skin on skin moving.

Color can exhaust you, with streaks of blue down a cheek, blemish forming on the skin, the grey hue of despair creeping.

Nothing then everything, Happy then sad, turned on then turned out, miserable, ecstatic, manic, joyful, prideful, fearful.

Each day, unruly colors fill to overflowing, wildly and blindly changing shape and form.

But remember, each night like clockwork, the slate is cleaned with the innocence of sleep.

Lines change, outlooks change but each new day, each new morning, color renews into the canvas.

True, days can be long, stains are inevitable, and some colors stubbornly cling.

But a new day always happens, to change the color, mixed and open to possibilities, ready for color to change our world again.