Atoms slow to mist and colors run free,
a wave of folded heresy inverts.
I am the brush, the things between,
a vicar of truth static in thirst.
Rain and I, mother and child
in search for a time to collide and
smash together as destruction,
as rebirth, pinned to wings of flies.
Chasing ash, running still,
this is dust and I am fine
with pain grown from knowing
and clocks leaking time...
Readied for retributions
yet a hair's-width from reach,
I am the color of starvation
leaving a dream's cheeks.