Resplendent in its purity
The New Canvas hangs,
In Histories gallery.
Opposite, in a shadowed hollow,
Tar-like blacks, muddy browns and blood reds,
Across once white sheets.
In a conjoining room,
Another hosts a serene
medley of blues,
Dredged from an ocean where
Seductive reds slink, across
The picture in the hall.
You might almost imagine,
(if paint were able,)
It engaged in a wink.
The majority though,
Are muddled inks.
That would have no place,
At galleries dedicated to illustrating face.
Some are similar to the arrival:
Pastel shades and innocent hues,
Just begun to jostle
Over canvas anew.
If paint upon canvas could talk,
They’d whisper about the newest arrival.
Will it take hues vibrant, dark or blue?
Will it become grey and depleted of view?
For this is history’s gallery,
And if Dorian had known,
Even he would have found a
(A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight.
Poetry published as part of the daily prompt challenge