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.
Good, good—
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.