The blank canvas sits by the window
Prepared to become a blob of vibrant color and meaning.
To open someone’s eyes, so they can see things from differently
And embrace the wonderful pigment as a strong powerful poem

But there is no one there to assist its transformation

The guitar, untuned and dusty, is propped in the corner waiting
Waiting for someone to stroke its strings
So that a pitch, a tune, is born from the vibration
And music is made so people can hear

But no one is there to stroke those strings
And to listen to the music that could have been made

The plain sheet of paper longs for a pencils
To scrap along its surface to make a mark
That turns into a letter, which changes to a word, that multiply
Those words are a voice, louder than anyone, more sentimental and passionate

But there is on one there to let the word flow from their minds, down their arm, through their fingers and on to that shingle sheet of paper.

Or so they thought