With pigment caked under nails, I put down the paintbrush and stand back to admire my handiwork. Cyan is the hardest one to work with, I thought, soaking until bristles become soft and pliable, then later continue to wash in hot and soapy water.

Nearly a decade has passed since chaos consumed the world, my breath and thunderous beats of heart are the only things that reassure me of my existence. Viscosity of air and water have altered as well and require different system dynamics. And as if that wasn’t enough, the concept of morals, ethics, canniness and beauty have taken on new meanings. It appears as though nothing can assist orange glow to bleed through wispy white curtains.

To be pretty for you, I have dropped two seeds of turnsole in the dark of both eyes. The question is, will it be enough?

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: PinterestΒ 

For my prompt where I invite others to write inspired by a line from the poem
Garden, by Isabel Duarte Gray. Come join us! πŸ’™

Posted for Prosery: Through the eyes of Isabel Duarte Gray @dVerse Poets Pub