a canvas that’s not white when empty, but Blue:

Maya Blue, Royal Blue, Sapphire Blue.

Time slipping through the fingers

like molten glass, stopping Memories 

like a snow globe, where only the snow 

moves in Space, and everything stops to stare in 

Wonder. 

only Time unfreezes itself when frozen

and clouds form pictures on 

that canvas that’s not white when empty, but Blue.

who is that painter,

how steady the Hand that forms 

thin, crystallized lines of ice

in remembrance of artificial birds.

a sculptor to form towers of white

curtains before the opening act of 

Lightning and Rain.

only to be magically erased overnight

by a Moon: 

of shades of cream white,

a Lantern to guide The Lost 

Home. 

 

so when the self-doubt, the Fear

the suppressing thoughts of 

“what if I’m not good enough, 

what if I’m not worth it, 

what if I can’t do it,

what if I 

Left?”

when the meaning of Life

is so abstract that Death 

is weightless, obsolete, 

Nothing, 

when taking another step forward 

is like walking against 

all the forces of the 

Universe, 

when the cuts from the blade

aren't enough of a reminder 

that the body is 

Alive,

please look up at

that canvas that’s not white when empty, but Blue. 

 

it is a vast space unhindered by 

the dark confines of the 

Mind, Memories, History, 

it is the pure concept of Freedom

of Unbound shackles, 

of whole words, of 

Happiness.

a constant, ever changing presence of 

the canvas that’s not white when empty, but Blue.

seemed to be taken for granted by the masses of 

moving Dots below

but Look up 

and see Your Story 

in color and puffs of cotton; 

and watch Your movie of 

Hope.