The world was never your palette
(but you use it anyway.)
The painter paints.
He tugs down a corner of the sky—
This blue is lovely, he says
He takes it.
The sun shines, glorious yellow-gold
(too bright, too bright.)
He searches in the last forest, where leaves dapple the sun
And finds a patch amongst the mottled light-shadow-light.
Neither too bright nor too dull,
Neither too large nor too small.
He uses it.
The painter sits in the field
Life pass him by.
He waits for colour.
One day, his patience snaps and he
Tears down the last scrap of sky, drains the last drop of sea and
The sun into it.
And one day, the grass grows, just a little,
For the last time.
This colour is perfect! He exclaims.
He crushes the grass and dips the brush in green leaf-blood.
The painting is almost complete—
But there are no colours left in this world for him to use.
He slashes through his heart, and
in his own blood.
This poem, though a little strange, is actually about how humans recklessly destroy Earth for their own selfish wants. But in the end, there is nothing left for them to use, and they end up destroying themselves. Humans desire to take nature and use it to create newer and better things for themselves to use, and are never satisfied until they can reach perfection. But they don't realise that they are destroying more than what they create.
Written on impulse in about less than half an hour, so it is probably rather strange...
A note about the formatting: the last line, in italics, is supposed to be a wordmash with no spaces or punctuation in between, but due to how FFN and FP love to ruin formatting, I had to rewrite it this way.
Thanks for reading! ^^