Darkside

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Oh how beautiful are these colours
of brown and black,
How well-fitted are these torn
and tattered rags.
I'm told I'm brave to tread every day
on these pavements that char my soles
to the hue of my scorched face.
Then I clank my head on a glass
partitioning me from a pale pink hand;
But before I know, the glass slips away 
from my own frail fingers
And before I know, in this sky turned purple,
a minute fleck of orange is all that lingers.
Yet I stagger back to my street with my vessel.
Have a look inside
- someday, you might find a piece or two of mettle.

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