An empty canvas,
drifting from place to place,
Artists come and artists go,
and no one really paints.

once in a while there's a simple stroke,
a brush against the white, a draft that's never done,
Painters come and Painters go,
but no one empties their paint.

a splatter of color, left unfinished,
a jar of water, muddied by mistakes and paint,
People come and People go,
But the Canvas is never finished.

one artists backdrop was another's mess,
a painters tree becomes another's spine,
a sum of all that came before,
alone in the dark.