Shreds of Colour
Black
Black seeping
from pores, I choke
on its own smoke
– unspoken words,
A fire has been lit.
Standing in flames,
drawings and words
of what you think
to do, on once blank
canvas’s now speak
of what you drew,
Isolated four
seasons, almost
a fifth – silence,
A fire has been lit!
Blackbird beckoned
from the trees
of nearby eyes
in darkness
– peering
into the warmth
and light
of my nest,
young awaits
her food,
she sings, unaware,
protected from
your secret and
I draw – curtains,
A fire has been lit!
Every pulse fills
a rage, spins the air
around me,
Standing in armour,
I draw a sword
My blue eyes
change to Red,
with each and every
single
blink
I. drip. flames,
my hair
now charcoal black,
sweeps across a gaunt
pale face,
a barefoot thud
across the earth,
no longer high
heeled feet,
black cloak rattles
in the wind,
a primal roar
shows my cutting
fangs, fiercely
ride a horse
as dark as me.
A fire has been lit
and a mother sips
flame dripped tea.
Red
Is the colour
of every word, etched
canvas in a self-made
studio that hangs
a degree of fine art –
put a noose around
once welcoming
paper, spits
your vulgarity now,
menacing smile,
gritted teeth
and stinking
mind,
etching, etching, etching
your paint-stained
hands, blood-coloured
dripped and dried,
shakes the hands
of unknowing
artists and smiles.
“congratulations
free expression,”
must have watched
my smile a million
times, each tooth
aligned
and imperfections
– mine, anonymous
skull exhibit –
My pale white skin
shows no other shade
or marks, yet,
a sable brush
painted my
insides
out,
my pale white skin
shows no other shade
or marks, yet,
a sable brush
painted my
insides
out,
My pale white skin
shows no other shade
or marks, yet,
a sable brush
painted my
insides
out !
– lyrical, visceral sight,
shreds of colour
beckoning to write.
White
Is the colour of the sheets
to write and to sleep,
a moonlit sky
that once shone on two,
the colour of the walls
that held the night
secrets for too long
and the once crisp
laundry you splashed
with paint and hung
to dry in a gust
of colour and wind,
I wished you painted
the flowers instead
thrown from a
window at your feet,
smiling, hushed
hearts – my own
left me before
now
– a betrayal known
to only the walls
and I, birthing
colour’s while others
in whispering
winds of an artist’s
frenzied brush
and I’m almost blue
in pretentious walls
as though they are
still white,
shreds of colour
beckoning to write.
Blue
Is a sparkle of colour
left behind (- White -)
an enraged heart,
a gut that churned
in pencil grey
and contemporary art
-I rolled in darkness
of early morning birds
that sang yellow
songs reminding me
some things are still
the same and even
if they are not,
poetry won’t set
them free
so I retreat in colour
new, to never write
of shreds again
or infinite blue
– the colour of my silence.
Shreds of Colour is © Ana-Mai Smith
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Chris Murray 