What is a soul but a piece of artwork?
A brand new canvas on storks feather,
A blank slate brought into the world,
Still mewling for mothers milk,
Aching for a brushstroke of identity,
Of purpose,

Your sires gave you a pencil outline,
A blueprint to be sculpted by your hand,
A grey spook calling for some colour,
Though colour will not come freely,
Indeed the world has a temperamental palette,
It is a chaotic studio,

The soul shall become a kaleidoscope of glee and dolor both,
Pigments from every page of your story,
Some colours are bestowed by embraces and kisses,
Some strokes will be with razorblades and glass,
Chroma from every pleasure and ache,
Art is pain as they say,

These brushstrokes shall form a human soul,
Storied yet chafed,
A picturesque identity with tales to tell,
But by the end the soul is a tapestry,
Aged and cracked in its veneer,
A masterpiece to be planted in the cold earth.

Comments
  1. Absolutely brilliant!

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