White Canvas

I sit at a beaten table
Dreary from its use over the years.
A warm yellow light spreads its arm
Over the table's old wooden tears.

I walk along the oaken landscape
Kicking aside graphite rocks and wooden fans.
I pick up a shaved yellow log
Astonished as it shrinks to the size of my hand.

I strike the log to the ground
Watching intently as intricate gray patterns emerge from the tip.
I silently wait until the lines cease
To continue my hopeful trip.

I stumble across pools of color
An array of soupy reds and blue.
My hands dipped deep in the wells
Of entrancing colors of fantastic hue.

My hands dripping with color so divine
Each drop creates a picture of its own.
My hands touch to the ground
While I watch the pattern fill up with a calming tone.

The color licks at the edges of the lines
Careful not to leave the trail.
The pattern fills slow but sure
As the desolate land become less pale.

I jump off the beaten table
For the color had been stripped from my hands.
I wrench myself free from the lights grasp
As I fell from the barren land.

My mind clears from my journey
As I take a step back.
My fantasy shouldn't have ended
But white paper I seem to lack.