The Beautiful Canvas

The blank stares
as the people look.
A blank Canvas
waiting for colour.

It waits silently
watches the others,
being painted
being finished.

They all get stared at,
their beauty admired.
And there is one blank Canvas,
waiting for love.

Never does an artist come,
the Canvas remains alone.
There is no point,
to a Canvas to be blank.

To be different
from the others.
An outcast
UN-NEEDED!

Taken down--
and thrown away.
The Canvas is lost,
in a dark corner it lay.

A storm has risen,
not caring to be seen.
The Canvas is painted,
in loss and dismay.

The Canvas paints itself,
many hues of red.
The painted rubies,
dripping from the strokes.

It's discovered the next day,
painted but lifeless.
No heart left to see,
no love just hate.

Being cast down,
the Canvas was made.
A beautiful painting,
bat at the loss of a Canvas.

--No one understood,
the hate left behind.
Because no one could see,
...the loss of a once beautiful Canvas.