If in fact
There’s black
At the end
Of what we
Suffer

I’ll gladly
Paint my absence
Where life
Did once
Take shape

And assume
No plan exists
Even though
Some traces
Linger

Within spaces
Losing meaning
Like these feelings
Vast
And gray

Simply called
Our colored dream
Which allows
Each mind
Assurance

How those perfect lines
Incarnate
Should reveal
This canvas
Bare

Just waiting
For its shade
Of thick darkness
Come
With brushes

Held intently
Drawing figures
By old hands
Whose faith
Is pale

Without semblance
Or strong grip
Making pictures
Out of
Nothing

While instead
Revealing shadows
As the fate
I’ve always
Known

Hiding God
Beneath their smudge
Between hues
He calls
Division

Fallen victim
To that spectrum
Proving brightness
Is not
Real

But inspired
Using love
As excuses
We can’t
Picture

Like religion
If assuming
There are tints
Beyond
This death.

– J. Pigno