The wall has fresh paint
Opaque in color
To drown out her screams
Both varied and innate
Perfect background for pain
Colors sliding down
Mingling with her tears
A crack in the facade
Perfect in its flaws
Waiting for a second coat
The darker imitation
Belonging to another
Yet bleeding through
A reality of change
She sits back to that wall
Breathing in and out
The blending of selves
Past into future
As the colors dry
In myriad striations
That mirror her soul
Like so much fresh paint.
Sam's Online Journal 