PANIC

 

Panic poured black,

on a canvas of white.

It starts out small,

but spreads in all directions.

It cannot be contained.

The artist struggles,

but the paint drips down her arms

and onto the floor.

The heavy scent fills the air.

The canvas is prepared,

the paints are in place:

cadmuim red, ceruliean blue,

yellow ochre, and black.

But the once vibrant colours

of her life have been reduced to one.

Brushes are tossed carlessly

into the empty can.

Once well used to paint 

the pictures of her life.

The palette of hills and valleys

await to glove her empty hand.

The light through her window dims,

much like the light of her creative soul.

How long has it been?

Where does it come from?

When will it end?

The paint smears as she wipes her arms,

leaving traces of her mood behind.

She discards the black,

sets up the white.

She knows she must begin again.