A very late entry—so late that I finished it just after midnight…

I slept chaotic
the day I turned blue
each shift felt shorter than the last

Then it was noon

Had the siren sounded that day
I would have heard nothing
but the color slowly spreading

deepening

to a ripe indigo
fed by rain and silence
unturned by words

Clocks don’t have second hands anymore

Each layer of paint
changes the canvas
in ways I cannot predict

I haven’t found my color yet

Paints and poems
feel inadequate
for the task at hand

It’s now midnight

What good is pouring
my feelings out on the page
if I don’t recognize the color when I see it?

(15/16 May 2017)