Canvas

There lies the white

In a room cluttered

There is a smell of damp wood

Wet by the moisture of paints and sweat

It stings the air

Creates a vacuum in the lungs

In the darkness, it sparkles

With a dull antiquated sheen

Newness is stark and sharp

This has a soothing warmth to it

Ironic, as the room is still cold

There is no inspiration

Eyes are glued to the pristine board

Not knowing what to do

Not knowing where to begin

Not knowing how to end

There builds a bond between the two

Speechless, yet heavy in meaning

The wood echoes the muted voices

There are no more in the room

But it feels claustrophobic

The white must go

The echoes around need to be inked

Only then will there be a breath

Respiration for life

Perspiration of desire

The paints drip

The canvas is weeping

With joy or sorrow is unknown

What lies in front is a motley of strokes

Is the air lighter?

The lungs expand

The chilled musty air rushes in

Discomfort persists

There is something wrong

I forgot to add my heart