A Poem on Death

Tombstone

Birth presents us all with an empty canvas,
And when you look closely you can see the tiny grooves in the rough material,
White, pure, untouched.
Yours.

Life makes marks.

Once your frame can no longer contain the spirit,
A masterpiece is complete.

Death can be about dirt.
Dirt and wooden boxes,
Flowers and black umbrellas,
And dreams cut short.

But up close
I see a splash of crimson passion,
Drips in dark hues of melancholy,
Bubbly shades of gamboge, 
I see the streaks of bold phthalo greens and blues,
Rippled blotches of violet and vermillion,
Interconnected strands of pure white.

Stepping back, the hues blend,
Your eyes staring back. 

I can see your memories stained on your fingertips,
The Artist has made their life's work.