Pinks, Purples, blues, greens,
Strike with a Spark of Powder,
With each curve,
twirling,
They leave a dusty trail.
Only to be left,
A mess.

They rest at my feet,
mocking me,
Lined soldiers around my savior.
even then those soft, spongy fingers,
Could never cleanse,
remove,
disappear.

I still yearn to know what it means,
To be touched by an angel,
Let it be rain, hand, cloth, eraser,
Something to heal these scars,
Something to wash away
Someone else's sins
Off my face.

My name is
Chalkboard, Sidewalk, Face,
I only ask
for a clean slate.