No-one remembers silver,
No name or face in that shadow that dulls to grey.
Words of warning spat out like antimony crystals.
Hanging in the lines between
The brilliant lines they’ll always remember.
Strikes of contrast and lightening attack.
Cowing the undecided.
Pushing them deeper towards the centre line.
There are shivers in the trees,
Slithers of something neither black nor white,
Nor consequential, taking breath.
Something smells the hesitation,
Then gobs of flesh and time dissolve in the vortex,
Leaving only the certainty of monochrome and melancholy.
(c) Accidental Tentacles 2016