Once upon a time
She was white
Blank, perhaps pure,
Like the rest of them.
But then, time showed up.
And Time is an artist,
Word is an artist,
Choices too-- an artist.
They came with invitations.
But sometimes they just barged in,
And they smeared their markings
Of permanent inks,
Harshly, gently, swiftly, slowly
To form their versions of her.
Now she is no longer pure
But an abstract marvel instead.
Some love her, some don't,
And in wretched times, she doesn't too.
There are still some white on her.
But she is now
Painfully, beautifully,
tainted.
