They cast us in identical moulds,
grey ingots,
unremarkable,
but I was poured wrong, gloriously wrong:
the tram bell rings in violet,
the kettle whistles a drinkable tangerine,
your voice flows in secret rivers of gold,
and the night rain falls in indigo slow.

While the clones register only the factory hum,
that flat grey prison drone,
I hear in colour:
every sound an artist’s dawn,
nothing catalogued,
no two notes alike,
and I will not be asked to love the grey,
for this is the joy of it:
to be the unrestrained painter’s paint,
on canvas,
unsigned, unsellable,
made from splashes of life itself.

 

24/6/2026