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

Submitted: April 24, 2019

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Submitted: April 24, 2019



An easel found its dwelling

In a nook of a room

Supporting a canvas that was waiting

To be filled with hues, bright and blue.


It presented its white face to the world,

Fresh and spotless

It was human, albeit devoid of flesh and blood,

Looking forward to be dressed.


And so it embellished itself in blue;

A baby’s first cry.

Never had there been tears as pure and true,

As the blue paint that dried.


The canvas could not speak

So it added a stroke of red

In frustration and defeat

It chided those who to its woe were deaf.


The canvas, still in its infancy

Found joy in yellow

A stroke of mischief and tomfoolery

Stood radiating amidst all the chaos and sorrow


Time passed by,

And the canvas grew old

Gone were the days when it stood spotless and spry

Instead, it bore the weight of the colors it soaked


But that was the only thing it knew how to do

Ingesting the colors as they entered its pores

To produce an outcome from the concoction of muddy hues

An outcome, dismal and sore.


The reds and the blues birthed purple

While tinges of greens chimed in to produce a muddy brown

At last black with a smug chortle

Reigned the canvas, its head held high with a crown.


The ruler masked the gamut of tints

That once resided on the canvas

Despite its reputation, it wasn’t depraved

It merely carried everything that fashioned it once.


Beneath its surface, one can still find the first stroke of blue,

And those of red and yellow

Their endeavor to subsist still continues,

Leaving behind tinges of joys and sorrows, 

© Copyright 2019 Shifa Maqba. All rights reserved.

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