I could have painted these pages with our picturesque potential
Quivering with each written word as if it were a brushstroke ever so essential
Carefully crafting every artistically assembled prose without a single exhale
Sweat would have trickled down my brow as I ensured every meticulous detail

Painstakingly placing words on parchment as if it were a canvas
Sentimentally sketching each and every raw element of our souls, of us
Shading shadows of the underbelly of our biting bitterness
Highlighting a heavenly harmony we were never able to harness

I would have stood back to fully take in the marvel of this creation
Titling my head from side to side accessing this merciful manifestation
Standing on my head to view it from an infallible interpretation
Knowing full well that this piece is far beyond your comprehension

Except I never did pick up a pen or a brush
Never outlined the life we could have created
Never coloured the world we could have influenced
The only marking is of my sorrow that stains a blank page