Falling free into some picture and
if I can be, I will be
dropped as a spot on the canvas and then
I've got a chance to be seen.

Palettes and paints tinting
sinners and ain't I a saint to
fall forward and take up a pose.

In the back row, I know there's a girl
but I'm slow and so go up the aisle
all alone.

On the frame, in the corner,
a name,
representing an artist
who died long ago, but
his pictures still sell in
the gallery,
and they're shown in a
half light to show respect
to the man's life.

Still falling and unsure now as to whether
the painting and I are one and the same,
the name in the corner, the frame,
I spot it, I drop it, the thought hits the paintbrush,
rushing me in on the venue,
I knew that it would.

She waits in the back row and I am afraid
that she might go but
I walk up the aisle
on my own.