Chosen
I am a piece of paper, upon a dusty shelf
I wait for ink to stain my sides, to re-invent myself
I lie here, still and silent; unfinished, not yet whole
And long for print to pour in showers of words upon my soul
My purpose, as yet unfilled; my role still undefined
Perhaps I may, one day, a passing poet's fancy find
If I could choose, I'd have an artist take me in his hands
To cast his brilliant painted dreams across my barren lands
But when I am selected, I may not turn aside
My smooth-skinned form is there to serve, and cannot be denied
The print may resonate, or it may cut me to the heart
Whoever comes, I must submit my surface, to his art.
