You know not my history
yet you would destroy me with no prior

My skin matches not your chosen shade
so in the back streets of ignorance
you colour me grey.

I speak not the language of your birth
but I too had a mother and father who
spoke only to me of understanding.

Never would I communicate to you
of war – yet kill me – you would.

There is nothing within in my DNA
that marks me not of human being.

Though in this, self chosen ignorance
you bring your own hate to batter down

my innocent beliefs…

Searching For Her Monet.

She painted the seasons
outlined a Monet in all of his
most vibrant hours.

Life, had gifted her nothing
outside the slap dash imagery of tragedy
conceptual in it’s primitive need.

She daubed splendour – in full
blown colour
monochrome approval mutilating
her body’s refracted light.

She came tutorial prepared –
drawn into existence:

looking for her creator.

The Colour Of Sleep

We picked white roses
then as we slowly became undone, we threw
them at the waters edge.

We divided watching them sail from our view
for when something is over – it is the only thing to do.

You exiled me long ago; into those awkward empty spaces
allowing the summers heat to blister my back
whilst I alone, shaped the snowman’s smile.

I feast thoughtfully,
upon the last days of our freshness
distilling the taste of our uncorked laughter.

It could be any afternoon; in my wool buttoned
cardigan, fastened against the cold moist air.
I am not for connecting – time is but a clock ticking itself alone.
Rye bread and water, slip to bless these arterial walls
before the night
comes to tell me, that this is the colour of sleep.

Poppy September 13th 2014 ~xx~