A blank canvas, awaiting her arrival.
It doesn't mock, it doesn't judge.
It just exists.
It doesn't mock, it doesn't judge.
It just exists.
Perhaps it beckons gently,
Whispering of times past,
Of lines written and inspiration given.
Whispering of times past,
Of lines written and inspiration given.
And maybe today the fear isn't so sharp,
Or maybe it is and she whittles it into a point
And takes aim at her tedious desperation.
Or maybe it is and she whittles it into a point
And takes aim at her tedious desperation.
She still dreams of forest fires and butterflies.
Maybe it's time to paint them again.
Maybe it's time to paint them again.
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