Mark. A Heathcote Poems

A rose doesn't require razors.
But they're there to help her climb,
If swamped, surrounded by alligators
She will, over the summertime.
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When time is stilled and stoppered in your heart
An echo heard that might not mean that much
Shall a song to remember be imparted?
It'll ring in your heart of silence a touch.
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So, I guess after all our stars weren't aligned.
I'll wake up and forget the lack of mourners.
And remember when you once were mine?
I shall wake up and stroke the bed corners.
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We fight against the end like a derailed train.
Leaping off the track constantly, trying to jump back.
Wheels squealing, backward spinning
Jettisoned ever forward, trying to stay on track.
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I am the fall, the colour of God's love.
I am Lava. I am Rosso Corsa.
I am Magenta. I am Fuchsia.
I am Rosewood, disintegrating rust.
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I'll be water - I'll be shade.
I'll be a storm cloud, an ever-spinning weather vane.
I'll be a Mediterranean Picasso blue.
And Van Gogh's favourite colour, yellow.
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Explore the colours of life.
Before the curtains close
And all shades are equally exposed.
Dance and sightsee a diamond sky.
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Depending on the artist's medium, his pigments
Ambitious colours take centre stage on the page
Take Gauguin, for instance, who would use bright, flat colours
With simple outlines, vibrant, sunset-richness
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Some say her complexion is as white as marble.
Others say that her skin is jet-black
Some say it's red—no, wait, it's yellow.
Some say her skin is a rich, earthly brown.
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His inconspicuous manner was a smokescreen.
That meant his crimes went undetected for years
He exploited the susceptible, the vulnerable.
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