The Blank Canvas

To the self it is,
My thoughts have turned.
A deliberation normally spurned.
Bland and blank canvas.
Reflection of the outer.

White resplendent glory.
Nothingness mar's the dowry.
An empty space that's here to fill.
With wisdom,
With knowledge,
And countless useless pill.

But nothing belongs to nothing.
You see it's a catch towards perfection...
Colours and hobbies reflected,
Are soaked in by the baited.
The void, it does endear.
White canvas ne'er to mire.

The blank, it does not burn.
The bland it never scars.
One day, we hope, maybe for par's.
The canvas might break even,
Royal in the cars.

For now we see it blank,
For now we see it bland.
Perfection too complete,
Unmarred - its major scar.
Everything soaked, blending more to white.

Its ironic in its glory.
Too perfect to be anything.
The canvas that is bland,
One day maybe it will age.
Perfect white will begin to fade.
Show its colours, beneath the cade.

or now its blank.
Mirror of you.
If its flawed, then that there is the cue.
Your canvas is bland, just like mine.
Pictures of us all too white.
The imperfections are all you.
Tossing mud will later swallowed.
Joined to swirl into blank.

Nothing for the masses.
Ironic in its cusses.
Insult a mirror.
Better than insult your inner.
The blank that swirls.
Is all your own.

Canvas is just a canvas.
Mirrored in the mortar.