“Incinerator Rose”–the sky froze–“Pink”–
And crackled like glass from the heat–hot ink
Bled itself like molasses from a sink
As the tailor fell, and orphaned his link.
A bouquet littered the breadbasket–“Red”–
And his waistcoat was tattered in his bed
As he lay lifeless, knuckling spools of lead.
Without a thimble, life is just a thread.
“Gun Beryl”–his eyes closed–“Ultramarine”–
And his teeth clanked like a sewing machine
Running itself like a trickle unseen
In a lost wood which was no longer “Green”.
And questions arose, asked of the tailor–
“Ash Blonde”–was he his own modern jailor?
Where was his armour? Was he a trailer?
“Amber”-alerted, he was lost–whaler
And hunter so doomed, he was soon harpooned.
The Day, it sighed as its son was consumed.
With “Silver” fingers he was soon entombed,
But not before his son’s heart was exhumed.