The Painted Man
Now they call him the Painted Man,
But once upon a time he had no name,
A true blank slate,
Eyes of grey,
And colourless hair.
Society gave him his colour,
Everyone who met him painted a stroke,
We were all artists,
His body was our canvas,
Our words to him were the brush.
Red of anger and frustration,
Blues of sorrow and disappointment,
Yellows of joy and excitement,
Greens of envy and want,
And myriad other shades of feeling.
He is now the Painted Man,
A creation of society,
A monument and a monster,
Are we really any different?
Were we not all painted?
WorldofHarley 