You know when you feel it
There is no better fit
Between paper and mood is this
The feeling you will dearly miss
Canvas toes tap the concrete floor
Colors from window to door
Hands can go round and round
You are so easily and helplessly bound
To the cold, to the mind and
Many do not see their lives drift before the icy hand
Outstretched and ready they scurry life
Maybe time is the numbered and blundered wife
Of our blue marble we call home
Though to that tiny grey box I come
Speckled with promise and hope of my future
It is not you who decides, I have grown mature
Never will it be gone
Art will live on