
I stand awaiting your approval
a fresh finished canvas
anticipating the final touch
but you the artist are unsatisfied
rather than a final wash of color
a knife rips through the center
displacing form and hope
dangling from the frame
I hear the sound of
drip drip drip
paint leaves its mark
indelible is bold crimson
on the floor where I once stood
a blot that can never be removed
but really what does all this ruin matter
for all that I was is done
dreams slashed
the palette dries
ugly hue the color of mud
and I can neither look up or down
I am a flailing bit of ruined possibilities
Do you ever look at something you’ve archived? Whether a drawing, a painting, or a poem some are worth excavating. This is such a poem that has possibilities.