Painting By Numbers
My eyes are tired from too many tears,
Their blue is the colour matched with number one,
For one is alone, and I am also alone.
The dilated vessels
And the flesh of my eye
Are colours two and three:
Red as the blood that flows within them
And yellow with aching fatigue.
Four is the green of the dead seaweed,
Strewn broken on rocks of the shore.
Five is the orange of a dying sun,
And of the over-made face of a whore.
Six and seven illuminate
The city streets she stands on:
Six is the dark purple of the sky,
Whilst seven is the white of the street lights
That fight off the ever-encroaching night.
Eight is the pink of her first-felt impurity,
Nine is the brown of complete, dense, obscurity
Sure, she's so sure she's completed maturity,
But she hasn't.
And she's one so of many more
That face ten: the black of finality,
The escape from life's brutality,
And the knowledge of the reality
That sometimes living is just a chore.