It begins with a blank page—
A milky plain unrestrained from
Limiting lines meant to refine
The honest hues from overflowing.
Quickly speckled with imagination—
Smiles arise canary yellow,
Blushing pink and purple laughter,
Strokes of doubtful stormy-grey,
Crimson rages splashed and sprayed.
Overlaid by words outspoken—
Scribbled and sprawled with
Thoughts blotching out the
Frivolous colors that childhood
Spewed, for a greater grasp at
The meaning of reason, false or true.
Until inch-by-inch the page is filled—
Layers of life display the mess
That decorates all damaged goods,
Where shadows of malice naturally
Blend with resplendent joys from glowing
Deeds, for no fine line exists between
The choice of past regrets and dreams.
And all that’s left is the shape it holds—
With no more room, time’s thick trinity is
Folded long—triangles six, fuse and
Create the arrow softly drifting,
Slowly falling, gliding in its
One last role to show the
Blissful perfection of
An imperfect
Life well
Lived.