The same canvas
The same colors
The same landscape
every day.

Adept at the process
Fairly skilled in execution
There was joy once
But with repetition and no inspiration
the same outcome is achieved,
and the end result isn't what it used to be.

The canvas is showing signs of wear now
A roughness here, a crinkle there
Marks from a life of continued use,
from continued expression.
More paint to mask the imperfections
Some days it conceals,
but others it only highlights,
intensifies the flaws.

The same portrait,
over and over again.
Just something to present,
day in and day out.
With no real pride in the work or product,
the joy has waned.
A reflection of what's behind the scene.

Soft strokes, muted shades.
Every color twice-over to choose from,
but the same three or four used.
Just a small handful of the wealth that surrounds
Tucked away in boxes
Collecting dust
But kept, perhaps for someday
When the muse might awaken
From her long sleep.

To revive me.