Canvas

I sat at the canvas for a year,

I've been waiting here for ever.

I stared at the blank page for a long time,

Insistent that there was something there.

There are pails of colours around me, 

I finally dip my fingers in. 

Each bucket's colours stain me, 

And streak my page. 

She told me that once finished,

She needed the paintings to run free.

The longer they stayed with her, 

The more strained she'd feel.

I find myself pinning my work to string,

Like developed photographs

Freshly out of solution. 

The poised images of my altered heart.