Painting the flesh beside me purple
long brush-strokes of anil
filling in the blanks to
the putrid smell, the rotting organs;
a great wash of perfect color
moves across decaying skin
like the busted banks of a levee.
Painting the windows to the
shrieks purple, flooding the
dying sighs.
Painting the room purple and
the house purple and the grass
purple and the mountains purple
and the sky purple;
wasn't the point of this to
start somewhere, to make
small dripping steps.
Copyright © 2002 by John Grey.