When the paint runs out
You dab dab and blotch
From what remains,
To even out the blatant gaps

You try to substitute
To frugally use, reuse
Just
to keep the painting intact

when the worn out brush
can no longer preserve
what was,
or keep designing
what is to be


it recedes to rest
an thus,
The fading begins.


At first it’s a tinge lighter
Just a little less brighter


But then shades begin to wary
Significantly, from what they were.
Paleness maybe be boring
But boring doesn’t hurt.

This new insipidity,
Soothes the ruptured nerves.

Or so the brush tells itself
To lie in its inactive state
To escape into false contentment
Is easier
Than to be a brush without the paint.