Living Canvas

Paint black as tar stretches across my skin. Moist, scattered across the living canvas by thin finery. Spherical, a tessellation of inverse color. An army, one with no color, something that got life sucked out of it to make nothing. But it is still a something... Opposing force, all colors united, to one blank statement. Opponents base camps, settled in their heart of their foes cavalry. The battlefield still ran moist and muddy. Until the star above greedily snatched it away.

Then all was left but a crust of dry battlefields, and thirsty armies. Minuscule re-enforcements sprint down that living canvas and charge through the cavalry with brawn. They send remnants of paint (or should I say cavalry) dewy and afraid.

Bombs rain from the sky and pick apart pieces of the cavalry, now the bombs and tinted a tar black. Those tar-black living bombs that move like fingers, uh, yeah fingers... Soon the crust dies away and leaves the canvas open again to more thin finery...