Imperfect Colourful Me

I am laid out on the palette. Oily opalescent

blobs of brilliant colour in isolated islands,

tense surfaces pricked by bristled brush in hand

hovering, ready to make form from colour

yet daring not smear together

in fear of ever adulterating the perfection of the parts.

…

For am I not these colours,

exactly as a Maker would have made them?

Pure by design so as to build from scratch,

per plan, per protocol, per order.

Stoney smooth blocks for stacking in a monument

to what a man should be.

…

Yes, my blood runs red in pulsing vessels, sequestered

from flesh yet flushes pink my sullen skin

in heat, lust, rage.

My hair grows brown from tired follicles, desperate for that day

when shift is over and strands of gray

blow the whistle on a life-long job well done.

…

The pitch black pits of my pupils, dark plunge pools

in vitreous caverns so devoid of colour

yet portals still for all that is colourful in life.

Colours, if I am one of you

then I am all of you but none of you

without the others standing by your side.

…

The Maker made as makers do, perfect pieces

of coloured pie thoughtfully arranged

radially, inoffensive on the wheel.

Tools downed, hands dusted, stood back

observing, admiring, but not disturbing

for broken perfect pieces never heal.

…

But it is my hand on the wheel.

Circle of colours ready to roll,

a forceful thrust bleeds and blurs the hues

flickering faster than eyes can follow

and neurons can fire until

they are only recognisable as Me.

…

So spin, colour wheel, spin! Let those looking down

gasp gobsmacked at my rainbow image

proudly bursting back at judging eyes.

Let those looking up marvel at the apparition

made of perfect parts but so uniquely imperfect, messy, free,

inspired to take a spin and make their very own colourful Me.