A brushstroke, a dark red mark
on a painting, a tiny speck, part of a whole,
like a miner on the picket line,
fighting for his freedom.
And a streak of blue splashed across the canvas;
a gay couple, who only want
to be allowed to love
the way they do,
Or an immigrant – this time a green,
as the artist is feeling daring –
looking for a new beginning,
and hoping that at the next interview
he’ll be treated like a person.
The artist’s brush dipped into a deep purple,
like the bruises that cloud
the skin of the beaten people,
who hide in their houses like prisons.
A yellow, a pink, a violet,
the people fight and the brushstrokes blend,
and the painting weaves into a face,
A movement, a body, a mass of people.
A green, an orange, a violent collage
of colours, of people;
Each just one, each just a brushstroke
of a greater whole.
But look at what they’ve made,
look at what they’re making.