The Canvas

An empty canvas

Is as pure as snow,

And as white as the clouds

As time struggles on

The canvas is yellowed and aged,

It is torn and mangled,

The canvas is distraught,

Smeared in a myriad of colorful paints,

Covering every inch of the once pure canvas

The canvas dried in the sunlight

The canvas sat in the attic

As a forgotten artifact of her life

Hours turned to days,

Which turn to weeks and months,

Becoming years that drag on

A beautiful work of art was divulged

In the vacant attic of her memories

It was an exquisite painting, a relic of who she was

This painting depicts her insecurities,

It portrays her aspirations

And all of her trials and tribulations

In black and white, in color

This is her strength, she is surviving

All because of the words on the page