The Blank Canvas - A Poem

The Blank Canvas

A canvas stretched on the frame,
Blank and yellowing with age,
Neglected it lay gathering dust,
Until the creator came.


Gently gliding his fingers across,
Wiping away the layers of grime,
Setting it softly on the easel,
Gazing tenderly at it a long time.

With eyes closed and in his heart
He conceived a picturesque scene,
With skillful knives he blended,
Colors never before seen.

Passionately he brought it to life,
With his palette and his knife,
Shading it with colors refined and bright,
Freeing it to take wings on his fantasy’s flight.

Playing around with shadows and light,
With scumbles, stipples and fluidic strokes,
Blending fantasy into reality,
Its shame and disgrace of the past he broke.

Transformed and renewed,
In its ethereal form,
It became the most desired and envied,
Of those enthralled by its singular charm.

Holding the canvas fondly to his breast,
With loving hands the creator caressed,
Sighing deeply he whispered,
Do you yet understand how much you are loved?

Birthed from my spirit and inspired thought,
Of me you will always be a part,
I will never leave you nor forsake you,
You will always find in me love ever true.

Oh! That I was the blank canvas,
In my makers wondrous hands,
Feeling him slap on some vibrant paint,
Occasionally scraping out some with restraint,
Filling in all the emptiness,
With his love, light and faithfulness.




The blank canvas © 2018 sofspoetry by sofs