Born like a clear canvas
Working hard to build pencils
The constant desire
To get the clear palette full
Of colors

All I could ever paint
Was black and white
On clear canvas

My whole world is abstract
The finest architecture isn’t found
Within me

My world is archomatic
No longer white canvas

My brushes are not the
Round, pointed bristle ones
They’re the unwanted
Square edged long brushes
In a achromatic kind of world

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