The Canvas That Ate the Art

We scraped the cedar, burned the vine,
To build an altar, strictly white;
A sanctuary, spare and fine,
To hold the uncorrupted light.

We banished brass and copper pots,
And painted out the oak’s warm grain.
To cure the world of clumsy spots,
We made a temple out of plain.

*“A pure blank canvas,”* so we swore,
*“Where living paints its own design!”*
Yet should a shadow cross the floor,
It blurs the sterile, sacred line.

A muddy footprint turns profane;
A droplet bleeds like mortal sin;
We scrub away the summer rain
To keep the quiet museum in.

Now, breathless in the silent frost,
We guard the emptiness we bought,
And count the paralyzing cost
Of living inside zero-thought:

A canvas bleached so clean and bare,
So terrified of mark or stain,
That nobody may breathe or dare
To let the painted life begin.