Sunday, 12 June 2011


We begin as a blank canvas,
filled only with the womb

Then we are coloured, painting
every site, choice, tune

All the while though, the blank canvas
rests beneath frame and form

terrified that its meaningless
could render pointless being born

why therefore strive to paint
on nought but voided space...

from which we're born
and will return

to death without a trace

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