The color of Death


Death has a color that is hard to describe,
maybe white and pure and new,
something not to fear but to bask in.

Maybe black as asphalt,
burning and harsh.
Something to run from, to avoid, to grieve.

But the day that death painted my father’s skin,
it was a new color I had never seen.
Not light nor dark, but cold.
An empty kind of color.
It started slow, the mouth, its first target.
A mouth that would never again smile or speak my name.

It spread down his trunk and limp limbs,
absent was his once golden skin.
In its place a ghastly kind of color,
wrapped around his calloused hands,
gone was the pink from beneath his nails.
These hands never again would move, build, or fight.

My father a loving, powerful man.
No longer colorful. Now painted with a hallow hue.
Death has a color that is hard to describe.

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