The Crimson Paint Tube
written by: Charlie Bottle
I, a barely used crimson tube,
lie, midst squeezed tubes of other colors,
their dry mixed views, unused, on life’s palette,
dry, they lie waiting for the oil of mercy,
to enliven them once more.
to be spread, on the canvas of that Time.
Accusingly I ask The Artist,
“why have you used me so little,
in the depiction of these times?
is it fair you choose burnt umber?
raw sienna, cerulean blue,
and other attention grabbing colors, over me?”
saddened by my supposed marginalization,
I lie depressed, midst my multi-hued peers.
The artist washed his brushes and cleansed his hands.
“it is done!” he said of the canvas on the easel.
in front of a cloudy blue sky,
stood a rocky escarpment,
sparse with young acacia trees.
on it, stood three burnt umber crosses,
on the crosses, three men,
from one, flowed blood, crimson, red.
“No greater love” he said,
“is there than to lay down my life for my friends.”
humbled, I lie sparsely used in a box of paints.
used but once, in the presence of man’s cruelty to man,
and in the face of sin, chosen to depict eternal love.
I am but a trickle, on the Face of Mercy,
I am but a drop, in the Ocean of Love,
I am but a mote, in the Book of Life.
I am but a sliver, of the Mirror of Joy.
here I lie contentedly still.
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