What’s left when red repents into rose—

a hush of pigment in the waterglass,

a faith that doesn’t shout its name,

only dissolves towards moonlight.

Yesterday’s fervour stained each wall—

cobalt hymns, gold ache;

now the brush rinses clean,

the canvas exhales—

night clouds of lavender doubt.

Even the saints are paling,

their outlines blurring toward sleep;

halos once molten

now tender as peeled paint.

I kneel in the everyday grey,

find holiness in the fade.