My jaundiced from seasoned sin.
Could I pull the tattered paper down?
A hound dog, a dove of peace and a quail hustled by.
And, all I could do had been relieving my grief with a sigh.
An influx of vigils there in one self-determined space.
With a stretched out, battled scared, hand.
Pigment a bit red, more brown than white.
Black has been my favorite color…but something I know I would never fully understand.
Slipping on mounded snow…a not gracious slip.
Just inches from the ground…strange but not a stranger…a friendly grip.
Another vigilante grounding my sorrows with a lift up.
I need not understand the gesture…no longer had the stranger been so strange.
“When the prophet, a complacent fat man,
Arrived at the mountain-top
He cried: “Woe to my knowledge!
I intended to see good white lands
And bad black lands—
But the scene is grey.”
A palette so buxom.
I choke on the array of undertone.
What my soul would not give for the simplicity of
black on white.
White on black.
With neutral, often lacking emotional fact.
burning beds of red.
Cobalt rages on the river.
I’ve never adept at marrying the swirl of…enigmatic givers.
But, alas, even if there were a blueprint of time.
In the middle, I would be left standing.
Attempting ratification of contrast.
Crippled by the ambiguity of colors that fade too fast.
As I lay awake…brought to by the mask between dark and dawn.
Late night phone calls made up of frightful spite.
I am no longer a dismayed child…hiding in the corner of a cluttered closet.
It is only in the dead of winter do I feel a certain warmth.
In the crevices of wee hours, newly forged friendships.
Years pass, nothing could buy my love.
Nothing could forge my amends.
But those selfish hours…have long since gone away.
Last night, a black and white memory of hiding in that closet.
I did not cower from it, as I usually do.
No longer will I play puppet to a dark fool.
How youthful, one foot in front of the other.
How gallantly innocent, these long hauls without a stall.
Rounds of cheer,
There in yesterday…
How frivolous, indeed, the forest that I borrow.
What a tryst, these walks, unlimited.
Me, and, my bohemian ways, dearly wed.
So, in someways, a line is cast.
Shallow waters running fast.
To which, the obvious,
an eternal misstep from the past.
Get it back.
Got to get it back.
Not in trying, do I lack.