He wears a hat of weird wind,
and for the lack of face
I can see him
unsmiling.

Shifted shades
of sad distortions,
colors mixed
in strange proportions
and all is just a sea of
lost emotions
intermingling with
rejected love.

White streaks
flow in semi-circles
surrounded by
a sky blue.

His ears can still hear you,
indifference
is not his preference,
but strangers do not
reference is existence.

All is abstraction
as paint pulls away
to blur a face
that will melt
from the memory of
everyone.

Till, the old blue man
is just poor pigments
plucked from the soil
and returned
to the earth again.