The paint can tipped
Spilling paint
On the rock,
A fairly large blot
Of bright red,
A remarkable spot
Against a dark canvas,
Comfortable in its inlay.

Rain, hail and wind,
Sandstorms too,
Have lashed on the rock,
Since the fateful tipping,
Of the unsteady can,
But the bright red,
Has held on,
As only it can,
To its spot
On the rock.

The rock,
Once obscure,
Is now an eyesore,
Blemished,
Stained,
And extraordinarily
Out of place.

To be out of place,
Is to not belong,
Where does a rock go,
To find itself a home,
Bright red stain and all?