The Colour of Chance

A coloured chancer danced on blazing pin tips
Pretty face behind the needles
Unnecessary quips
Revelers in rhetorical jargon
Speak pretty lies squeezed from accurate misunderstandings


Kisses blow through winds from the thin breeze
Droplet bleed cuts of blue
Imagine an Amber princess, draped and golden
Her romanticism burrows through callous flesh
A thin vein pumps fire through hearts
An icy tear drop scorches fire
Thy tiara has begun to tarnish


Blessed paupers who wash their own feet
Their private wars shed our dignity
Sour grapes make sweet wine


From the windowsill soft eyes stare coldly
The cold world whispers back warmly
And the chancer wonders,
But never does