Strokes of red, violent blue, what makes up a life? A world? A dream?

If the world’s a canvas then who is the painter, why did he make my sky gray?

There’s a dab of yellow, of cotton candy pink, a line of jagged black.

Yesterday’s tears mingle with tomorrow night’s wine. If only the world were easier to avoid, to hide from and erase.

My ridiculous musings fade like cold water on a hot tile, long gone never forgotten because they were never known