Still streaming flowing with green paint running

Free flow stream of consciousness experiment

 Still streaming flowing with green paint running

Off my fingers and dripping on the yellow-dead grass

Grazed down to stub by those cows that seek their ultimate fate in death

The sun bleaches the world below yet resilience never seemed stronger

 

Red paint splashing on my boots the pigments haunting me

Beyond their spectral homes of white sepulcher screaming

My name that last human thing following my steps

The boots crush the land and spread the paint

 

Skin in its porous demeanor sucking up the yellow paint

Evaporating me as it crusts to flesh

Without so much for so long I still receive gifts

From the mocking tones that never silence

 

Blue paint upon my face does begin to drip

The job that I never signed up for and never was paid to do

Being that downfall even as cloth vestments

Adorn themselves on bony shoulders

Crying out to that bit of fluff that dreams are made of

Heaven nor haven do I seek only end

End to chess pieces crossing white and black that never reach checkmate

If it doesn’t stop and kings still sit upon their blocks

Pawn dead

Rooks dead

Knights dead

Bishops dead

And in her final breath the queen’s mighty crown touches the wood

 

Two bitter old men staring each other down and here I lay in the middle

Victories of so many are mine so many

As they lay off the field the carvings begin to melt

And mold and turn and my stomached churns and gives sacrifice

They become me a field of broken me

 

What can I do with my silly paint set

I’d ponder as a child who sought only joy

Never will see it again

As I ascend for even though I painted the world and captured its people

There is no hell greater than war

Author's Note

Is it too obvious in some parts? I didn't want to make it too ambiguous (and more accessible) for everyone who reads this site. I'm probably not going to edit anything unless it really worsens the poem, but what even then I just wanted to type for a bit.