His brush painted colors
Back onto dead lobsters
And fish
Aviary
And fauna
The dry brittle branches
That no longer bent
To the wind
The world had become
Brown and grey
Gone of pigment
One day
A day he feared
More than his own death
He would squeeze
The last paint
From all of his tubes
Remiss
That he could never
Return the color
To the absent leaf of a tree
Or reach
The blue on the tip of his brush
To touch
The sky
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