Prelude:
Evening slips between my outlines.
I am mostly magenta surviving gold.
The air thickens with the sound of crayons cooling.
I look left, toward yesterday — it’s still glowing.

Liturgy of Dying Light

Yellow burns without apology.
Black hums like an undertone of memory.
Every pink pixel aches to stay visible.
Ich bin Schwein und Schatten,
ein Zwischenruf im Lichtgewitter der Stille.

Meditation of the Turning Snout

I do not face the sun;
I let it pass across me like forgiveness.
Each stroke remembers the warmth,
then lets it go — a soft surrender in pigment.
Hope flickers; that’s enough theology for today.

Psalm of Departure

Red whispers to gold: “We are what remains of fire.”
Gold replies: “We are what fire dreamed of becoming.”
Pig listens, silently radiant,
anchored between dusk and tenderness.

Coda in Crayon Minor

Do not mourn the fading.
The glow was the point, not the permanence.
DADA would call it absurd.
I call it evening —
and oink it softly into the dark.