painting

you've used
up all your
colors. the palette
is dry. the pigments
lie like frozen
tears, unclear,
and falsely colored.
each brush is stiff
and still, out
of hand, against
the unused
canvas, as white
as pebbled sand.
nothing, but her
comes to mind,
that you need or
want to paint. no
face, or mountain
makes you
rise to this
occasion. it's over.
how can you possibly
move your hands
and eyes to
recreate your life.