Colour of Sorrow

If I painted you a poem
of troubles and worries,
sorrows and judgment
from untold stories—

Worry would be a deep, dark blue.
Not too dark where it’s lost,
but just enough
to still hold true.

Trouble would wear the color of night,
with swirls of silver and borrowed light.
Is it not in the hours past midnight
that trouble finds its stage?

And oh—
the colour of sorrow
may not be a colour at all.

For when sorrow poured
across the canvas page,
it coated a milky white—
but then dried clear,
and never aged.