an empty canvas, ripe full of possibilities. melancholy on the tip of the brush, a deep well of sorrow in the choosing, shades of blue. black for the bags, full heavy in death. smeared are the eyes, drawn open by fear. his coarse, brown hair, so many strokes to achieve, passed down by her. even then, no such thing as a vibrant brown. she could have painted him on the slab, instead electing his room. hues of his existence, looming still. mother painting dead son, lying in his bed. Incapable of finding the perfect shade, lips so blue. statuesque, a single tear, was it for him or her? demands more blue, the coolness of departure, hanging on his spout. no more words to be spoken, a cave of nothingness, in place of a mouth. mother paints dead son..... longing to paint herself, lying beside him.