Cobalt Dreams

Found an old tube, cobalt blue, worn thin,

the color sparked joy that I hadn’t let in.

A friend shows their work, vibrant strokes on a sheet,

and the cobalt I loved starts to rise, bittersweet.

Once fluid and free, it flowed through my hands,

painting my world, filling up empty strands.

Now buried in dust, as the passion recedes,

it sits on the shelf, drowning in weeds.

But cobalt calls softly, a flicker of flame,

reminds me of days when I called out its name.

Art is a battle, a comfort, a fight,

those hues can resurface, they wait for the light.