The Chameleon's Canvas

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The Chameleon's Canvas

They ask where the old painter went,
As if I had left the room,
Because today I hold a camera,
And yesterday, a broom.

But look closer at the grain, my friend,
Look past the ink and oil,
The hunger is the fingerprint,
The passion in the soil.

I am the ink that sketches cities,
I am the rain on glass,
I am the white ghost in the mist,
Watching the seasons pass.

I do not change,
I only grow,
A river, wide and free,
The medium is just the vessel,
The art, always, is me.