Vanitas

Rubbing the chalk against walls, off high walls
Tracing the lines on the bricks, all so plain.
When the last bit should end, dispersed in the clay,
I'd use my blood in its stead.
 
And craving the canvas, the canvas craves color
To it, not to God, I would kneel.
I'd place my desire to go even higher,
To draw where the air is thin.
 
Were I to delight the grave with my presence
To stop when the piece wasn't done.
I'd feel only pity for spots that were covered,
Disgraced by the spots that were not.
 
Yet hope that one day, a day like no other,
I'd witness a wall with no absence of color.
A day of remembrance of all I've been through,
A life reduced to a moment of truth.
 
What then? What purpose my painting would serve?
What meaning the colors would have?
Will there, in the painting, be all the answers,
That desperately seeketh my heart.
 
Would I be content did I not find the answer
In a world no meaning that has.
Would my hand hesitate to sprinkle some color
To try the drawing again.
 
Could it be that until I have painted them all
The truth would stay hidden from me.
Would I then have the courage to come to the wall
To lay my first marking on it.