FRESH CANVAS

By Mercy Fasalojo

 

Some things our souls thirst for, don't crave to be touched.

Even peace finds a way to escape our lives sometimes,

The ritual of flooding a beginning with a rivulet of everything beautiful is to wear the wind as cloth,

And use its hand to paint our emptiness.

Starting with the secret of colours that bends every fresh canvas into obedience,

And washing yesterday off our skins

to let grief perform evanescence.

then a walk into the months were

death buries darkness & light known by our names.