Blobs of despair
Tarnishing over beauty
On a torn up canvas
That slowly wastes away
With every bush stroke.

Every new layer of ink
will slowly disappear
through time and
what is left in the end
is a canvas with
a thousand different
colours, each
completely
indistinguishable.

Watercolor ink running,
rummaging through
the canvas. Slowly
becoming smeared
over what purity
was left of the canvas.

Life is much like painting
With every brush stroke
With every color
With every indentation
The canvas will no doubt
vanish.