Now An Easel Speaks

Your pictures are your words,

And your words become our pictures.

Your pictures, elegant paintings,

While your words are of cheap pastels.

The colors are quite plain of black and white,

Yet so many different shades are upon the canvas.

The canvas, the canvas, the same one to sit upon the easel.

The easel being quite old yet it still stands under the window.

The window you’ve left open, despite the winds and rain.

But something protects the picture, for the beauty lives within.

The beauty is not of nature nor of love,

Though sweet those thoughts may be.

The magnificence of the painting is still more to comprehend.

For the strokes are that of the heart and feelings from deep inside.

But the canvas, oh the canvas, but the treasures that it holds.

They tell a marvelous story,

Every stroke, line, and shade.

The story that you’ve painted upon the canvas,

The canvas, the canvas. Oh but remember the day, sweet canvas.

Your story was quite simple yet so hard to understand,

Your memories you’ve left here, shared through every brush.

The canvas still remains, every thought, and sense.

The canvas, the canvas, would it be gone had the day not come?

Oh the sweet canvas that holds such different thoughts together,

Oh the sweet, sweet canvas. The canvas, the canvas.

The canvas merges the pictures as one,

The canvas, the canvas. As it sits upon the easel.

The old, old easel that stands beneath the window.

Though weathered and worn, the canvas.

The hatred of the world can yet but not destroy your beauty.

The canvas, the canvas. Oh the things that I hold dear.