I scan the dark horizon for signs of morning.
But the low-hanging clouds, pulsing against a
backdrop of distant lightning, reveal mourning instead,
solemn displays of contrition too late in coming
to a night too painful to remember, yet too fresh to forget.

And so this is life, this unique string of  missed
opportunities, this pristine blank canvas strewn with
empty tubes that once held vibrant pigments, colors
wasted in vain attempts to paint the motives behind the sky,
overlooking the colors in the reflections in my own eyes.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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