Work of Art

Our bodies are a canvas Sculpting what we see A constant work in progress Molding to what people want us to be We act as an easel Allowing others to sketch their views With a selection of their utensil We become something for them to misuse At night we contrast pictures Intensifying shades we hold true The image in the mirrors Then well us what to do Scarlet flowing down as arm The primary colour we create Only there to confirm That critics love to berate