Holding a door On top of some bread Try to get out of me Use me as spread

A bow but no arrow A string gone unplucked The devil lost me in Georgia I suppose it was bad luck

Pieces scattered, all around, like stars upon the ground. Gather each to build anew, a creation known to few.

I carry color where I glide, across a waiting field of white. Soft hairs lead the artist’s hand, what am I at their command?

I have eyes, but cannot see. I need to reach the character minimum