I must spill myself on the road,
There's no such thing as a canvas for me.
No fresh blank board with a blizzard surface
Only tears and dirt stained ridges.
I don't have acrylic paint,
Yellows so bright it awakens the night
Reds so passionate it brings forth lovers.
The paint on the road is but dried up in corners.
There's no painter behind the painted.
No one watching its old and rusted creation.
I'm an art period with no semi-colon.
Rococo, classicism, baroque... they're not me.
People remember the names of long ago,
With curves of dead nature and spirals of pleasure.
Everyone recalls the beautiful old centuries,
Never someone will recall the painting of me.
I am no ship reck in the bottom of the sea,
There are no historians curious for me.
No lost treasure hides beneath the blue tapestry,
Where beauty had lied for centuries.
I am that road you overlook,
Driving on the one-way lane without thought.
There are rats and garbage and broken sidewalks.
I am the painting painted with regret.
I must spill myself on the road,
There's no such thing as a canvas for me.
I'm another crack in the timeline,
Lost in the hypocrisy of centuries.
