It is a season of cobalt which is then expertly blended together with slate grey.
It is used to draw frigid halos over tear stained cheeks and tired eyes.
The next color is a silver color, to keep from sleeping.
It is used to make the snowflakes scream down from a purple-black concave sky.
I’ve sipped on steaming, sugared tea. I had heated the water to a rolling boil.
I made it to try and melt the icy needles painted into my pin cushion heart.
But Alas, nothing is able to melt in the dead of such a steely azure winter.
A delicate, muted mint cream is the color of the flaky, thin ice that cakes
indeterminate feelings for me. I treaded carefully, but still I fell through.
I crashed through in shock and in each painting I was left to founder.
Apathetically they extended their paint stained hand but snatched it away.
The final step was to select blanched almond and lavender.
These were the colors used to add a tinge of hue to my bloated, drowned face.
How terribly and mockingly creative.
A Masterpiece is not painted by halfhearted artists.
These only painted for me a season when the green of life dies for a time.
In the depths of a gray splattered blizzard the eyes become snow blind and frozen
Yet they thaw when we entrust the true artist with his palette and colors.
He selects the brilliant yellows, electric blues, and the bright magenta of summer.
Perhaps too, summer will come again now that God is the one with the paint brushes.