The canvas in vers libre

True perfection is spoken no more plainly than in a blank canvas. art is no friend to perfection. the artist's stroke serves to make known his deepest thoughts, a labour of love. he is a slave to his master -- his art -- a loving servitude in a dark cellar, where oils and paints speak volumes of memories and visions, ne'er seen by another.

this is not a depiction of beauty on his canvas. this is no idyllic hillside, rich with colour. the human mind speaks most clearly in dark, solemn hues of pain and sorrow. the lost loves, the regrettable exchanges between sheets of off-white cotton, the forgotten moments of beauty, replaced by hate, greed, and vice.

sin has marred his canvas. no longer the bright perfection, but a vision of true pain, and yet, the blood, the tears, and the sweat has made these deliberate lines run. no longer the diligent outline of the artist's stroke, but the fantastic reality of smeared emotion. that canvas of perfection is now become a soul's realization, spoken in layers.