The Canvas

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 27, 2018

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Submitted: September 27, 2018

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Our race is hollow and blurred into a chaos of shapes.
Empty bodies with nothing more than mere features born;
eyes of glass, shattered windows to the soul,
lips breathing whispers into the motionless form.
Hands, molded intricately into instruments of death- and life.
A blank canvas waiting to be composed into mere perfection.
The mind is the artist which shapes the figure.
The canvas, different to each passerby, a book, open to reflection.
Scars, tears in the thread, mutter secret memories,
though, what is viewed is the mere flatness of the painting.
It only divulges with the eyes, it cannot look into the heart.
For in that ventricle of illusion is the complex of aching.
It bears more anguish than a single scar can hold,
more joy than a trill of laughter can express,
and the secrets that lie beneath are a closet of bones.
The ghosts that hide in the soul are surely not picturesque.
They chisel with knives that chip the marble apart.
They burn and slash this broken piece of art.

Our bodies are the framework for time's precious design,
ticking away at life, creating wrinkles in the lines.
Slowly ceasing to exist, beginning to wane and rust,
because we are all canvases fading back into dust.


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