The Sketch

She stared at the canvas;
besides, lay the paint and brush

So blank, so receptive;
as if beckoning, to paint her latest crush

But today she wasn't feeling like;
To be doing all the normal stuff
No sceenery nor a portrait;
depicting things in full pomp and gait

The hands moved with pain,
she was without her grin;
as she started to
Sketch lines, thick and thin;
perhaps a wanderer, and the places he'd been;
She sure wasn't sure what those lines could mean

But the feeling persisted,
and so did she;
something was taking shape
One sure could see;
Time beckoned, but her hands kept on
The last line, and she was startled, the canvas is me

She stared on;
Dazed, confused and oh! so sad;
It's me, my life and it looks so bad;
Devoid of colours, in pure black and white
I'll not let that be, I'll paint it bright;

So she took her brush
And dabbed the paint;
All colours she could find
Simple and quaint;
She stared again; dazed, confused but not so sad
As the disfigured sketch stared back, she sure was glad

Somethings are fine, just the way they are
Try to force colours, you'll loose even what was there.