All my crayons are lost,
except for the black and grey ones.
My easel’s broken, canvas torn,
Its the sadness I never felt before.
My color blotched hands are peeling skin,
Joints aching with the winter wind.
All my old paintings, with the memories,
Scattered in the mighty gale of the icy north.
A malevolent whisper, a conspiring gaze,
Swept away my life in a vicious storm.
A terrible pain, a desperate cry,
Disguised as a rebellious high,
Pushed away the tectonic plates of my soul.
In stroke of a pen, with few inks,
The pristine letters of immovable fate,
Turned me into a lighthouse of sadness personified.