The Canvas speaks

A blank canvas, stretched and bare,

Holds whispers of a world laid there.

Each brushstroke births a voice unknown,

A tale of light, of stone, of bone.

The artist leans, the pigments glide,

Their thoughts and dreams now amplified.

A crimson sweep, a cobalt hue,

A tempest brews, a dawn breaks through.

Do you see the faces within the frame?

The silent watchers without a name?

Their gazes burn, their stories yearn,

For those who dare to pause and learn.

Each color hums, a tone, a key,

Unlocking realms we barely see.

A swirl of gold, a streak of black,

A pathway forward, or turning back.

The canvas breathes, alive, aware,

It holds the artist’s soul laid bare.

And in its depths, we glimpse our own,

Through strokes of joy, of fear, of stone.

For art is not just brush and ink,

But every thought we’ve dared to think.

It’s where the heart and mind unite,

A silent hymn, a spark of light.

Step closer now, let the colors speak,

Their language ancient, soft, unique.

For in this world of form and hue,

The canvas tells its truth to you.