The brush stopped moving before the sky was done,
Leaving a space for a missing, pale sun.
There's beauty in the lines that suddenly break,
In the quiet choices we didn't get to make.
A splash of crimson, a stroke of deep blue,
A half-finished portrait that looks just like you.
Not every dream needs a final, sharp line,
To be considered something truly divine.
The empty spaces hold the most of the soul,
Proving that fragments are better than the whole.
An unwritten chapter, a song without a beat,
Is often the one that makes us complete.
We strive for perfection, for the end of the race,
But life's truest magic is in the white space.
A garden of shadows where the roses don't grow,
Still has a story that the wind likes to blow.
So let the edges stay ragged and torn,
For in the unfinished, a new hope is born.
The canvas is waiting, forever and still,
To be filled by the power of a wandering will.