Is it purple, like bruises that refuse to heal, burning within
Or red, sharp and alive, gushing from broken heart.
Like grey, a heavy cloud of melancholy that fogs the mind

And when it settles, perhaps it turns to brown,
the shade of what remains after,
memories etched deeper than the wound itself,
traces of what we’ve lived through.

And when it all ends, the tears dry and harden into earth,
a dark soil from which a new day arises.