We draw, erase,
and draw again.
We adjust and correct,
painting what little time allows.
When the work is done,
a life takes shape on the surface—
quiet, unmistakable.
In that wide room,
canvases lie scattered:
some swept in bold arcs,
others measured
in threads of precise lines.
Each one,
utterly its own.
Yet I wonder.
Children drip color into everything,
but as we grow older
a gray undercoat settles,
softly smothering the hues we still carry.
That satisfied smile of yours—
is it truly real?
Behind the gray,
your colors
barely reach the light.
Nov 21, 2025
Nov 21, 2025 at 6:38 AM UTC
We draw, erase,
and draw again.
We adjust and correct,
painting what little time allows.
When the work is done,
a life takes shape on the surface—
quiet, unmistakable.
In that wide room,
canvases lie scattered:
some swept in bold arcs,
others measured
in threads of precise lines.
Each one,
utterly its own.
Yet I wonder.
Children drip color into everything,
but as we grow older
a gray undercoat settles,
softly smothering the hues we still carry.
That satisfied smile of yours—
is it truly real?
Behind the gray,
your colors
barely reach the light.