Tick tock, goes the clock...

Their lives are determined in time;
his and hers
but neither belongs to either.

Roy G. Biv holds their lives in his hand.

red; dominating
—his fingers, exploring sacred nooks
—her sheets, unclean like her body
—discarded, two who came after
—the blade, buried deep in silence

orange; warming
—sun is rising, the mind it’s scouring
—flames burn brighter, now devouring
—wood is crackling, she is cackling
—he’s run out of time, and she holds the gun

yellow; warning
—stranger danger, come this way
—“where to?’ he says, “a place to stay.”
—certainly, he mouths, but mind is chuckling
—eagerly anticipating unwilling fucking

green; wandering
—crash and burn, escape steel deathtrap
—bones now breaking, hear them snap!
—dappled clearing, clear brook streaming
—night time terrors, with their screaming

blue; freedom
—blue sky, fly high, blue sea, plunge deep
—floating, hair streaming
—now matted and bleeding
—now blue lights flashing, and hands are grabbing

indigo; kingdom
—bound queen, her subjects are near
—guards in white, and blades so keen
—among her people, so fevered and ill
—they could see she’d long lost her will

violet; transition
—of veiling and unveiling
—rain falls true and elicits false weeping
—only one brought a gift, a flower for her keeping
—sunset, night’s terrors are chilling

There is one other that Roy does not hold within his hand,
filled with wondrous sights, or the dead roaming the land.

black; nameless
—all in one, or none at all
—voices so crowded, no discernible self
—absence profound, don’t bother looking ‘round
—a soul once living, now truth is seeking