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Painting Apocalypse MAG
March 15, 2017
When the grass was still green,
He told me he’d paint the moon
With his black and blue oils
No pastels in sight
When the sky erupted fireflies
He determined he’d paint it clear
With some layered cobalt
No crawlers on this canvas
When the frame was covered with ash
He promised he’d paint us together
With a photo he kept in his coat
No destruction in our picture
But when the world turned inside out
His paintings were left untouched
With frayed edges and dried pigments
No more morning, no night
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