Macabre Colour

Father does not like this colour,
Yet I pout my lips and protest,
Demanding I write all my letters with it,

Macabre Colour,
How did this happen?
To something that trills me,
A wicked feeling ripples through my body,
As the pen touches the paper,

Father disproves with red,
He says blood should remain concealed by the body,
But I see everywhere,
As the sunsets , on girls lips,
Even under the folds of their skirts,

Macabre Colour,
How did this happen?
Black fits well with death,
At a funeral this wonderful colour doesn’t belong,

Father says that a blade is this colour’s friend,
Red is not the colour of a sword,
But shining silver

Macabre Colour

MichaelCouacaud

Melbourne, Australia

  • Artist
    Notes
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desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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