His palette holds
mostly black now,
With shades of
grey
On the periphery;
The taste of dust
in his mouth.
He sits quietly
before a canvas
Bereft of colour,
It’s whiteness
sour.
His eyes are
marked with ash.
His memory silently denies him;
Belief peters out.
The candle
gutters;
She was his blue
red yellow flame.
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