I needed color— But when I needed it the most The only shimmer that caught the light Was dust beneath my feet. It was skin— And from that skin sprouted pigment Growing brittle on my paintbrush. This shimmer was not the light of men. I chose to live, and from my life A piercing note of survival— Dust crusted over. And still and still and still— Within the span of final breath The strokes grow greener With unforeseen hope. (A/N: I wrote this several years ago in college. It actually got published in a small online magazine called The Closed Eye Open, which I am very proud of.)
