Crayons

I color the shape in,

Like bruises on my skin,

I turn the page red,

Like the blood that spilled out when I bled .

I paint the sky blue,

Like the tears that escape my eyes upon the broken adieu,

I make the land green,

Like the last traces of life in me ever seen.

I color the flowers purple,

Like my habit of clinging to the past like a myrtle ,

I add little splashes of yellow,

Like the last time my voice was heard; an echo.

I make a river but it is stained with red,

Like my eternally lingering sense of dread,

I turn the sky from blue to the color of an onyx,

Like how my state of mind has become one for the lunatics.

I take a look around and see that everything I've made is rotting and decaying,

I can only stand by and see as my world starts fading,

But after all, broken crayons still color,

The ruination may be inevitable, but atleast the air is familiar.