The lights are all out,
The room is black,
We're in silent doubt
With the lights in the back.
The paintbrush is steel,
And the cups are lead,
It's harder to feel
When the paint is red.
The silence is brittle,
It's broken by drops
When skin is whittled
From the bottoms and tops.
We're far from dead
But there's something we lack,
For the paint is red
And the canvass is black.
We chisel the pain
In much needed ways,
With nothing to gain
But shades of greys.
The room is black,
And red now, no doubt,
We hide in the back,
The lights are all out.
