Tar black. Ink black. The night seeps into evening.
Somewhere an owl hoots and announces his intent.
An ingot of gold slices through the pitch of the Rothko
And is squeezed by the twilight, a reminder of the rent
Owed by Helios in payment for brash gleam of day.

Bitumen black. Coal black. Darkness creeps within.
The slither of bullion grows thinner and Nyx smiles a smile
As thin as the dawn of creation that recurs each nightfall
And battles as we sleep, until once more night in exile
Gives way and the flashbulb glare ignites the sky again at dawn.

Liquorice black. Crow black. Softly evaporates the seam of gilt.
Strong wings beat and nocturnal liminal beings manoeuvre in the dark.
Vantablack entombs the earth while Barberry Carpet moths flutter. 
Drowsy eyes linger, heavy sleeps the world until the morning lark
Ascends and pierces the suffocating silence with its spiral of happy song.

Blue azure. Shimmering gold. The Neopolitan ice cream of modern art
Rises in the East and somewhere a blackbird sings.
24 carat pure yellow rebels against drawn shadowy blackout curtains,
And sunrise steals onto the artist’s canvass in bands and coloured rings.
For a day the drapes are opened wide, until sunset heralds once more the curtain call.

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