My Canvas.
I trace the ghost of Da Vinci’s hand,
Tracing the curve of a painted sigh,
With pigments ground from the common sand
And a heavy heart and a wary eye.
I master the sfumato, the veil of light,
The layered glaze and the subtle grace,
I labor through the edge of night
To mirror back that ageless face.
But when the varnish finally dries,
And the canvas settles in the frame,
I see the hollow in her eyes,
A mimic soul, a flickering flame.
It lacks the pulse, the secret breath,
The spark that makes the master’s own—
A perfect copy, still as death,
A queen upon a borrowed throne.
I put the brushes down at last,
Conceding to the failure’s weight,
For I am shackled to the past
While trying to unlock the gate.
It’s not enough—it’s never art—
Just mortar, oil, and practiced skill,
Which leaves me hollow at the heart,
Though others praise the mimic still.
They stand before the work I wrought,
They marvel at the craft I show,
They praise the battle I have fought
With words that only strangers know.
They see the beauty I can’t find,
They see a wonder, bright and new,
While I seek out the ghost behind
The only one that rings as true.
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Author:
Friendship (
Offline) - Published: April 30th, 2026 05:25
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Friendship
Offline)
Comments3
My friend I see the ghost as the image of true art not just learned craft and technical ability. That is the ghost that we all search for but that illusively hides from view only to show their face on rare occasions. Nicely crafted this poem with its rhyme is a fave
Thank you🌹
You are most welcome, my friend
This is wonderful, Friendship 🙏🏻🕊️
Thank you 🌹
Welcome 🤩
beautiful write much enjoyed
Thank you 🌹
most welcome
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