So clean and untouched,
When first made.

From first contact with the brush,
To the moment the paint fades.

The blank canvas is such,
That it holds a known, and unknown, fate.

The liquid flows down the paper,
Staining it in its colour.

Who knows what image will be portrayed,
On that canvas, sullied and touched?

A festival of colours - a parade?
Or messages - hidden - behind what's brushed?

And is the canvas now much duller?
Or, has the art filled us with fervour?

Just what is a blank canvas?
What makes us want to dye it?

Is it to show our own darkness?
So that others may despise it?

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