Our life’s on a canvas,So crisp and so white,Endless possibilities,To bring it to light. We sit as painters,Acrylics in hand,Adding colours to the canvas,With the passing of sand. And we look at the colours,The soft hues of pain,All of the colors,That cling to our veins. And we’re bound to fill colors,Put no boundaries at all,But [I have but the brush of an amateur standing before his master, with canvas waiting for his colourless caress…] buy M. L. Behan at lobobehan@gmail.com
Boundless?
poets corner 