Anon | Shreds of Colour

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

Ana-Mai Smith lives in Ireland. She holds a business qualification and she has a passion for reading, writing and reciting poetry.Ana-Mai has been writing privately for some years, she has began to submit her work. She enjoys to experiment with non-traditional structures and styles and she writes various different themes. She loves to incorporate colour intermittingly into her poetry.