This poem is the result of taking an abstract word and describing it as a painting. More than that, it can also describe how life feels sometimes.
Panic poured black
on a canvas of white.
Starts out small,
and spreads in all directions.
It cannot be contained.
The artist struggles,
while the paint drips down her arms
and onto the floor.
The heavy scent fills the air
The canvas is prepared,
the paints in place:
cadmium red, cerulean blue,
yellow ochre, and black.
But the once vibrant colours
of her life have been reduced to one.
Brushes are scattered carelessly
in the empty can.
Once well used to paint the
pictures of her life.
While a palette of hills and valleys
awaits to glove her empty hand.
The light through the window is dim,
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.