The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov

Monday, August 11, 2008

Blank Canvas

Emergence of my soul
Departs a blemish on the primed space
Stroking it with judgment and each brand new inhalation
My sweat, skin and fingerprints connect and attach to the alluring surface

Gliding over the fibers
I hear a crisp smooth sound of the initial brush-stroke
Paint invigorates my senses as it awakens the face of void and essence
Thirsty fibrous buds open and drink, soaking up pigment of the color spectrum

I take a breath and exhale
Dipping my brush into the element of cleansing
Water drowns the residual dye as micro bubbles dance with vigor
Purging and abolishing while creating a fresh conduit for the next visitor of color

The primed and blank canvas
No longer a virgin of the purest innocence and bareness
Image of a goddess is born, then studied and constructed with firm strokes
Ready she awaits to absorb a new touch, direction of the master awaiting a change

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