I colour it black, oxymoronic tones;
Gothic, simplistic, ‘chic’,
A negative of the white canvas
Which I stroll along a transient pen,
Watching giggling patterns progress,
Of a pinkish tone, yet it’s unusual
Not entirely innocent, as it morphs
Into a copper block of mocking brown
A wildlife of political pasts, yet
Before aggravation of the brain,
It delves into a deeper shade,
Red; unlike black it provokes strength
Passions either lustful or unwelcome
Nevertheless I am settled with this,
Continuing the trace with the transient pen
Which transient, is to me-
But to you (my hand sketches, my mind)
Is one- of these,
Coloring on 'it' is a perceptive.
