On a canvas our lives are drawn,
born of purity, thrust into dawn.
Colors seduce, every stroke another day,
our every action a shade of gray.
Hardships endured many tears ago,
the pain forgotten, losses to forever show.
With each scar we’re sculpted, our hands bear the tools.
Minds write the stories of masters and fools.
Covers ever changing as we choose,
pages between paid our dues.
Lines filled in, some hues gone astray.
Upon our death the frame we’ll display.