Vanishing Point

In my portrait of life the palette began in pigments of blue, red and yellow, but with each stroke, my horizons slowly dissolved into mustard, muddy brown and burnt orange. Not everything you portray upon a canvas is mutually accepted, so my soul remained subjective and my heart abstract. As I collect dust upon my shoulders, I wish I was a painting never painted. Visibility has turned into a veil, resulting in stubborn invisibility, so everything is an illusion lingering in a black hole absorbing the conspicuous. I know I will regret not expressing one day but bitter roots remain rooted deep into the earth. I don't want to hide but protect what breeds inside. I'm afraid someone may look deeper into this façade where time forgets the truth. My hands resemble a box of nothingness, as hues fade from indigo into charcoal, with pastels infusing with the darkness. My heart is an ocean beneath a motionless surface. Not everyone can view the world like Van Gogh's eyes, where the longer you stare the more you become aware. In blind visions a 'driftwood' mind wanders between mental blankness and the angst of actuality, all that survives is blackness. If fate was fair then we would all view and be viewed in soft pastels of peach, sapphire and lilac. The harder I attempt to find myself, I lose more than I thought I would gain. At the end upon the edge in the last exhale all that is left will be the silence after an echo.