Each morning starts with strokes anew,

A gentle wash of skyward blue.

The brush of breath, the hue of grace,

A fleeting line, a softened face.

Mistakes in red, regrets in gray,

Smudged fingerprints we can't erase.

But still we paint, with trembling hand,

Each moment more than we had planned.

We sketch in love with shades of gold,

And outline dreams both brave and bold.

Some corners dark, some edges fray,

Yet beauty lives in disarray.

A burst of joy, a tear's cascade,

All colors in their rightful place.

No masterpiece is ever neat—

It’s heart and soul that make it sweet.

So paint with purpose, spill your truth,

Mix age with wonder, age with youth.

The final frame is not the goal—

But every stroke that shapes the soul.