Colouring in.

The child in me still sees familiar colours.
The first names learned and parroted to sate
the grown-ups' desire for pride, as they feign
interest in my picture. Invading my world.
Don't ask me what it is. It's mine. Leave it.

The adult in me sees a skeletal hand,
ruthlessly ripping out the throbbing heart
from the very nature of beauty. Red becomes
tinged with black. Pulsating veins are
soaked with the putrid stench of death.

Which is better, I wonder? The new, fresh
colours which only children can see, or
the acrid smoke of awareness burning
faded eyes, as we choke back the tears?
I think I'll go back to my drawing, for now.

Mez

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