In a house of dormancy, Seventeen years chained To a blank canvas. But lacking the paints.
Frantic fingers rend and raze The coarse cloth away Like a thousand fallen trees.
The pieces, dandelions in the wind, Drift away to reveal another Pallid square. Hide the brushes, Dump the water, Discard the apron, Fold the easel. In grey disappointment, Concealing the shimmering hopes. Now another prisoner ponders The same doubtful dilemma. A window to a distant paradise Cannot provide escape.