“The world is a canvas and
The paintbrush your hand,
You can paint it as you’d like it
Just don’t make it bland!”
The prompt was clear and the time was near
And the sound of ticking was tense,
As the classroom full of good souls at school
Waited anxiously for their chance:
As laid down before them was a famed glowing sphere
Which was now theirs to do what they may-
But on the globe laid before them it appeared that sheer boredom
Had affected the paints of past days.
On the canvas they witnessed not a Christmas that lacked
A putrid poison shade of greed.
And woven into the fabric were tapestries of panic
And anxiety that covered the sheen.
The whole globe was empty of purity and empathy
And instead offered darkness without light,
And our new group of painters slowly lost interest
In adding good to this wasteland in sight.
But one figure stood steady with her small scalpel blade
And a conviction to do what she would,
And when the time was presented she carefully descended
And began shaping whatever she could.
She took out some fear and replaced it with hope;
The violence she switched out for hugs;
And heartbreak of others she buried and covered
In ice cream and hot cocoa mugs.
But as she stepped back to admire her work
She saw she’d barely done one part,
Yet to her delight it seemed others saw her light
And began to mimic her art.
This lone heroic figure had done only what she could
With no intent other than love-
For since it pained her to see others under labor
To them, she gave reality enough.