She sits alone and paints her years away
Each sigh and stroke a bandage for her blissful pain
The darkest thought: what if she ran away?
and left the room of colors behind.
The reds speak of the heart she lost
one summer in the evenings
the passion that ran wild like rain
is scarlet splatters on her ceiling
when the oranges of sunsets is the only murmur that she gives
her brush can paint the moments she has lived.
Gray hairs fall from her furrowed brow each night
While she sits and stirs her tea in candlelight
and stares around at the beauty that never satisfies
The paint can’t patch up holes, but it tries.
The greens speak of the boys she raised
who grew up just like their father
who ran wild in creeks and tracked in mud
but would pause to say they loved her
when the yellows of trucks and training wheels is the only murmur that she gives
her brush can paint the moments she has lived.
When she wakes up early mornings
she can see the moon outside
and it makes her think of life and death and
makes her wonder why
and when she wakes up in the middle of the night
she’s forgotten what she knew
but her paintbrush kept a log
of all the thoughts that she came to.
The blues speak of the cold five years
when he left her there at home
when her boys would cry themselves to sleep
and she’d lay in bed alone
The grays speak of the latest days
when she could barely see the weather
but she could paint her life into picture frames
and that could sometimes heal her better
than the pills and treatments the doctors push
that she never gives a chance
so all the ones who dearly love her
just sit back and watch her paint brush dance.