In the darkness, colours create themselves,
Shadows become vibrant of their own accord,
Reflections shine like stars and
Stars swirl into streams of light.
The slow rustle of branches in dull wind
Becomes strokes of a brush, painting in front of me
An imagined beauty
Entwined with reality but
Not real in itself so much as waiting to be real
Longing to burst forth and dazzle my foolish eyes
But here I see a preview
A hint of some artist's dream
A whisper of captured thought in light and pigment
Though I know the street is black and the sky is black
And the houses are grey
And the grass is brown
Why couldn't they be gold? Or yellow? Or blue?
Why shouldn't they glow like fire licking at the
Edges of my shoes?
Dark remains dark only
For the minds which refuse to paint themselves.