Painted in shades of grey,
he was raised within a wooden frame–
that did no justice,
to his imprisoned grace.

Thus, from his cage
of grey, he rose,
to paint himself in shades of white,
and raise himself outside the frame,
that had so unjustly held him down.

As he moved through the world outside,
that always peered in,
he brushed himself in teals and pinks,
till there was no grey upon his skin.

Travelling seas, and hills, and plains,
he finally came to rest,
upon the lands where he was conceived,
whence he did start his quest.

Alone no more, for abreast he wore,
colours no longer foreign,
colours that mean, and feel to he,
as accepted, and as common.

Many questioned the spirit and form,
of what he came to be,
and pandered to their primal need,
of indicating the flaws they see.

How can one piece of art be called,
amiss for the route it took;
from the painter’s brush,
to its final touch,
it’s as much you, as it is me.