Chameleon

Upon arising, colours of my nightmare flee and dissipate to paleness.

Defeated.

Upon my first walk in the late spring that billowed morning, a flush of pink begins to bloom on my cheeks.

Upon my first conversation, contours of empathy begin their sketch outlining the revisiting of pleasure.  Coral-coloured tongues singing so pure.   

Upon my first eruption of laughter, all the hues of humanity race across my countenance and erase those etchings on the dank enclosure of my cave of fear. Its walls asunder.

Away! Away I push the foreboding thunder. I am alive, alive changing colours.

The Lightning Probes

The lightning is my brush and my ink-stained quill;

Peering and probing.

Throwing scarlet daubs across a pale-faced sky.

All reddening now this trembling canopy

By the fierce voice of a misfired strike.

By happenstance the lightning has pierced the vent,

unlocking the vault,

Where the colours of time have been in store.

All imbued now with that rich array of hues and dashes, monstrous clouds crashing;

Standing amidst I, newly attired, at last festooned with violet textures;

This deliberate blooming, create wild weaves ripped across my torso.

Standing there now in concert with the strikes of light, thrown by the mortal-minding hands of gods, all having lit the grey fuse.

Giving rise to the ghostly chariots delivering the death-carrying hues,

One more day. One more I insist to chase away the phantoms, away by will;

Not one more sunrise will I lose.