ok, i am not feeling well and have taken my headache medicine so i hope this is as coherent to everyone as it is to me at this time. :)
Without much distinctness,
I recall my humble beginnings.
When my palette was in full bloom,
With a broad spectrum of colors to sling.
The colors of flowers in the orchard,
The variations of the clays in the soil.
Small clumps strategically placed on a board,
Constantly begging to be blended and toiled.
Reds, blues, greens, and all other hues,
Ready to provide the backdrop of life.
I would think so carefully which to use
Before I even touched that palette knife.
Nothing was ever neutral then,
The intensity of life had a pulse.
My surroundings had a complexion,
Palpable textures from fine to coarse.
We all begin with a blank canvas,
Adding colors as we perceive them.
Years pass us on to a lower place.
Piles of pigment reduced to gems.
We are given one life,
Only one wooden palette.
Sometimes they collide in strife
As we fumble about our orbits.
The canvas becomes suffuse
As the colors blend and fade.
There are few hues left to choose.
Only black and white remain.
So, I live in shades of gray,
Searching for my deliverance,
As my canvas sits on display.
I wait in full reverence.