Empty Canvas

Empty Canvas

She sat silently.
The only sound the art room allowed
Was the swish, swish
Of a brush loaded with paint.
The canvas before her
Was once blank-
Empty from creativity.
As if someone had just tacked up a sign
Right in the middle
With one word, one sentence
Shining, glaring up at her.
Go.
It was almost like a set up.
They paged her third hour,
Sent to the empty art room unexplainably.
A brush and paints
Strewn carelessly on the ground
And the silky, blank soul
Resting on the worn, wooden easel used
For years upon years.
She knew what she would do
Even before she pulled a stool from one of the tables.
A light tan coated the bristles now,
Sweeping over the landscape covered in soft snow.
Transforming what was once hidden in a sheet of dust in the closet
Into what her consciousness told her to make.
Remembering her.
The blond hair
That framed her delicate face,
Thin lips
Wide, blue eyes,
Cotton-like skin.
An angel
Sent straight from heaven.
The artist lay awake,
Thinking of her angel
From the moment she slid under the covers on her bed
To the murky, unspeaking dawn of morning.
She had to do it.
It was inevitable-
Like everything else left in this dirty, broken world.
In minutes upon time
Her angel was smiling down at the book in hand,
Her eyes lowered,
Seeing only out from the thick, gold and bronze eyelashes
That covered the blue sea of her iris,
Only hinting to what lay beneath the perfected honey and tea lashes.
I’m sure the angel
Now in heaven,
Her tears falling soundlessly
Was happy with the girl she once was
And with the girl she was always beside
When the life flowed through her pulsing veins.