I am a canvas stretched to frame
Cool and blank with anticipation
Stacked along with others as I wait for the artist
To notice me
Pick me
Before my top edge is covered with dust
And I am passed by
For a newer, cleaner canvas
But why?
My life is in the hands of the artist
He can make of me what he wills, I am compliant
I can show fire and ice
Or
The eyes of the universe
I am his tool
He breathes life into me
And we are one
If
He bothers to look
Past the dust
Towards our potential
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Warm Love,
*-Brittany-*