death is brown

Death is brown.
light and beautiful
but suffocating in its infinite stillness.
It is where one moment is endless but sudden,
where time is finite but without mesure.

Freedom is a pale cool gray,
like the coat of a wolf it is warm and soft,
Like the chalky afternoon sky after a rainstorm
It stretches on for forever.

Incarceration is a muted green and a fallen sky blue.
Incarceration is cold stale air
And sunlight through a smudged glass window.
incarceration is seeing grass from afar,
grass so crisp and beautiful that it makes your heart ache
and your feet itch with anticipation.
Incarceration is the endless confines of your own soul.

Sadness is bloodshot red eyes.
despair is a cold tile floor
sorrow is a knotted stomach and a tight throat.
depression is having endless emotions but no way to express them.

Life is.
it simply is.
like a broken pot,
Formed from wet brown clay,
burned and hardened in a kiln, and dropped before it can be used.
life is just like a broken pot.
A broken pot picked up off the cold tiled floor,
A pot pieced back together in that cold stale air
Under that smudged window
and left to dry in a muted green room.
life is a pot held together with the promise of cool gray paint.
life is a whole pot placed
on itchy green grass
and filled with the endless confines of your own soul.