Morning Bed Red

Morning bed red. Red if I turn left, red if I turn right, red if I sit upright or show any signs of the fight. Red for a coffee black, hack. Red again from the hallway in the form of prison guards encultured like green, charlie sheen. I have moved on Schon, into pastures green and new, blue, evergreen trees anew all year round atop rolling hills green and lakes dark and deep with rocks in the shallows and nothing in the deeps. Still it takes one to know one, weeps.

The walls grey are talking to me in tones of severity usually reserved for Biblical scholars. What do I see? A work, created by me? Or a wall keeping me in green? I know what I have seen, what has been. Puddles of pink in which I sat my wellingtons red sitting on a bench of leather black whereupon I did see royalty reflected back at me and the place shone like the palace of Versailles. And blue too. I saw meaning green in the walls too engaging looking at just the right time in order to share an appreciation of art amongst men. And yellow hue, upon the heath I did chance upon you on a stand with a golden frame around you and I thought ‘did I make  you?’ Or did you make me? For real. Black with yellow dots, the colours of every day, a rainbow of grey hues in a blue holdall ready to go, to move.

But I have moved on already, Where else is there to go?

 

Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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