Flashpoint

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Flashpoint

In the centre you’ll find tinges
Blurred static tones, white noise
Ink bleeding at the fringes
Blunt needles used as toys
Played in shallow reservoirs
The ink, its level slows
In clumsy hands, so dour
Sketches drawing to a close
With tones dyeing and tainted
Inked, scrawled across the stage
Exits marked up left and right
And footnotes on the page
Stencils left from times when
Ink was fresher, sharp and true
Not this faded dull, blunt blend
Sepia tinted… tired hue
Of blunted shots and cold times
Shades cast from ghosts long shone
… In a flash of dots and bold lines
The colour… it was gone