The wet brush hovers uncertainly over the canvas,
Before me lies a land of untold tales ready to spring forth
Vapid colours and languid lines;
The black eyes of my beloved might even be slathered
On this very possibility, appealing I do them justice;
Enough to yearn out to those who stand the canvas.

A blob of paint dangles precariously,
Daring to fall before I chose its destiny.
My other hand itches and soon I have dropped the brush
And the drop deflates with a sigh.
I lift my feet quickly as I race around,
My feet catching in the loose yarn and recklessly cut fabrics on the floor.

“Aha!” I yell in delight,
I have tripped on something abandoned.
Beside rests my notebook and pen,
A poem I say, for this moment to live on.
Above me, the chords of an old song hover intently,
Waiting to be reassembled.

I have so many lives to live through my hands,
Alas, I hesitate before I can even live one.
My hand pauses after I scribble a word, just a word,
“There was once a sculpture—”
And I could learn to play the piano and lose my mind in the tunes.

Mozart’s life still caresses my hair in the flailing wind,
I could converse with him and others far gone.
But my lover’s eyes wish to hang on my wall,
And I have a ballgown to sew.

It is the next day, and I’m surrounded by the jilted scraps
Of all I could have done and haunted by the woeful remnants
Of my hanging thoughts and incompletitude.
Tomorrow I’ll die with a half-finished story;
No one will say for sure if I was more than fleeting or ever truly lived
And in the grave, I’ll remember that I was supposed to do
Just one thing to affirm my worth,
Yet I fluttered away.

This mind of mine has died a billion times,
I have seen our body in the grave reflecting; rotting
There is only one life, so everyone says,
So how can I live only once when the possibilities are endless?

I arise from my scraps, and pace about,
Briefly catching my image stealing glances at me from the mirror
In the drawers of the dresser are pictures,
Broken shards of coloured glass and ribbons.
They have come from so many lives I began,
So many lives I didn’t do justice to and slipped away from
Before they could cry out in dismay.

I spy the brush drying up on the easel and shake my head,
A wilted potted rose mops sadly from the windowsill
There was never anything more than possibilities.


















Photo by Emre Can Acer from Pexels