Thoughts On A Canvas

I held a brush but once. I saw
It dangled dense off fingers raw
Dancing, mourning, cradle, grave;
It will not a master have--
It will not be slave.

I only risked one glance. I see
Blood, bile, blue bespeaking me
Dripping whispers, dares, and sighs
Shrill and piercing cries up high--
Sweet are their replies.

True streams and reams of endless white
Will only speak if spattered right
Leering, smearing, slathered bread,
"What if I should fail?" I said,
"Should the needle miss the thread?"
Terrified, alone, I read--
"Acrylics!" Stunned, I turned and fled.