The Canvas

Life's but a canvas.
A portrait in charcoals,
With blood, sweat, and tears blotted.
Not what you make it,
But what it makes you.
Animal instincts rise within
And birth a new monster
Behold! What the world has created!
Behold it's child.
Not as God would have a child
'tis reformed by the gnarled fingers
of mankind's aging race.
A child of sorrow
    A child of terror
      A child of selfish tendency
        A child of greed
          A child of SIN.
The heavens weep to see the child
Yet scholars sit idly by,
All intellect and reason ignored.
They too resculpted by the dying tribe

From which they hail,

They love their worst enemy;
The dollar.
Currency is certain a strange beast.
It is land, metal, oil, paper, and gems
And is by nothing else connected but
Greed.
It is power enough to move a man
Wars have been won and lost for it,
Men have met ruin in its name,
The world will see it's destruction because of it,
And man will find his trust misplaced.
So, child of man,
Make haste to your canvas,
You have but one.
But, one can change history.
Let not life unmake you in the name of man,
But unmake life as man would have it.
Life is a charcoal portrait
...Let not your canvas be a dismal grey
Of blood sweat and tears.
...Let your blood, sweat, and tears
complete and not mar it.
Life is a canvas.
Let it be your own.