The Canvas

The Canvas The frame is laid out And clamped secure; The canvas unpacked, and rolled flat. The work begins. The canvas is wet, and lay Across the frame, squared by the artist's Practiced eye. It must be just right. He picks up the tacks. The canvas feels the bite of the first steel Holding it to the corner of the frame The pain is blinding. Then the corners are pulled The canvas screams silently in pain. It fights hard against the pressure As it is pulled out to the point it fears it will tear. But then the sharp penetration of the second tack. The experience is a new lesson in pain. But it cannot break free. It is anchored to the bottom of the frame. The stretching begins anew... Each pull measured in new And excrutiating waves of pain As it is forced to fit. It fights! Oh how it fights! But as it grows supple, The struggles slow and finally cease. The final tacks are nailed into place. But the canvas, used to the pain, Barely feels them sink into the flesh And anchor into the frame. But suddenly a new sensation. Wetness, and a touch. Pleasurable, almost orgasmic at times, Short and painfully hard at others. As the brush begins to move over it, The canvas begins to wonder Why the pain? Then this? What could it mean? After time, it begins to understand. Painting, drying, hanging, lying, It all seems so random, so pointless. But at last, it suddenly ceases. And in the mirror of the artist's eyes, The canvas catches a glimpse Of what it has become. And it is stunned. This beautiful thing? The vivid colors, the shapes, The picture...Can it be? Am I that beautiful? And the memories of pain Uncertainty, and discomfort They all begin to fade As the canvas realizes it is a masterpiece. From a simple yellowed Stiff, unyielding, barely noticeable piece of cloth, A wondrous work has emerged, And all begin to praise its beauty. So, what will you do? You are the Artist. Your actions, words, are your brush, And your life is the canvas. What are you painting?