Words of The Lamb magazine

Climate-controlled, but not soundproof –
uproarious world still heard.

Colors in storage, waiting in the dark,
shapes curious about what they compose.

Each stroke of oil gasping, hue unknown,
waiting for their craftsman to return.

Forgetting their hour of birth,
wondering why they were abandoned.

Created to brighten meek walls,
not only to cover fissures from anger,

but to be admired by each who passes.

Youthful craft mixed the paint,
while the rebellious spirit cut the angles.

Returning for its children –

springs and tension shove in the light,
canvases relax, and the oil breathes –

prism of colors freed.

Admiring each other’s beauty,
unaware and unable to see their own,

each is sorted.

Never forgotten, just saved for their creator’s own walls.