White fluff clings to cerulean canvases.
Who's to say that cerulean doesn't touch us?
Contrarily not so far away.

Casting a hand up,
Pale mixing with blue,
Black nails contrasting horrifically.

When the sky darkens,
The wind picks up,
Cerulean vanishes.

Stone takes place,
Not quite marble,
Not one color.

Pale and black drop,
Brown covers with false black,
Vicious waves consume, taking her under.

Achromatic heavens cry,
Letting compassionate teardrops kiss her in rhythmatic sobs,
A breath slips away into darkness.

Caliginous clouds cry themselves away,
That ever encompassing cerulean watching over a still doll,
Buried deep in her watery grave.