From Color to Dust

When we rise up into yesterday like a mistake

When we throw new color to the canvas so as
to survive, to see the flock of birds and the one feather
fall, to wear in our hair and around our neck
life's lost love as a decoration

What hurts most is to be
forgotten, so we dab a bit of blue
into her dress, the color of our eyes
so she cannot escape our haunting
and if what we must do is haunt
we are already dead, but maybe it is too late

Maybe into a coffin it is we were born

Maybe everywhere but now is our duty
the fiery sun on the horizon casting purple and pink
where our souls have always been headed

Maybe she painted us from the chambers of
dust in her heart, dabbing the tip
of her brush in pains so old

Maybe there is a flap at her chest that she lifts
when she creates, with a hole beneath and the color she intends
hides in her will, until on the tip of her brush
our colors she brings, and our fates

If we could hear what her dry lips whisper
"You began when I was young, in the scratch
of a nail across perfect skin"