by Nick Gisburne
The fury in your face is black and white,
And every grey illusion inbetween.
I need no paint, no pigment, only light,
To swim within your circle, pure, pristine.
I see the rage, but never see the red.
The darkness tells a story of its own.
Malignant inks reveal you. Slow, they spread,
To shape, in shade, a portrait, you, alone.
I wonder at the watcher in the room,
Provoking such extraordinary pain,
But all I have to feed me, to consume,
Is you, a face no colour could explain.
A mystery, from light to night, and back,
In every crooked corner there is black.
