To ashes

we pour our tears,

sculpt familiar faces with frantic

hands, paint them with bleeding hearts.

Color has drained from this world, this gray canvas reflecting our hope,

our futility.

We must be artists now, and we carry on, creating frescoes from the ground,

from metal

feather dust. …  to dust remaining

devoted, even now

as we breathe

and it scatters

to the