These days, my true colours are muted,
dark and damp. Smudged.
But still, the outlines are boldly drawn –
Made by a steady hand long ago.
My frame no longer fits my canvas –
it is too confining, and too tawdry.
Even in black and white, I glow.
I’m done waiting for the page to catch up,
for the easel to be just so.
Art movements are only ever named after
they’ve already made their mark.
What my eye doesn’t see,
my paintbrush already knows.


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