For A Life Never Lived

My exhaustion is a blank canvas

in the dark of a dusty attic.

Untouched and waiting for a spark to ignite

but brushes remain stagnant.

No paint to color its raw, white hide

and no hands willing to bring dullness to life.

Memories of cedarwood, 

of easels,

of hope.

Now become distant, from

upon this grime-covered perch.

The lacquered frame rots in the deep, dim, dampness,

lonely, alone, aching for a rush 

of passion

that will never come.

Spiders find shelter in its aging crevices,

an eight-legged respite in the night.

Their webs,

spun,

safe,

and loving,

remain the only touch

of care.