A complex feeling, this
attraction that buds
from friendship, twisted
into grotesque definitions
until what is left is
To paint it, thickly
since no dusting is needed
beginning with strokes of
words, more like metaphors
worth a sugarcoated lie
Blue, because sadness
or its rhyme with "you"
Such being a priority
as always, though cannot;
so this hue, should not.
Orange, because scarlet
of sun's set and rise
and mixed emotions, and sighs.
The real color of flame, yet
feisty, tangy, spicy, blade-sharp.
Green? Hope, they say
Rather, of grasses never laid upon
like in spring, time for which
consumed by fall, or winter.
Fleeting.
Red, like your lip stain
after a passionate wildness, yet
such cannot even lead
a spectrum, as one too...
subtlety-laden, mysterious.
Purple, as if bruises and royalty,
one perhaps being
the reward for the other
mark the heart's prosperity
or pain, though both unseen
Yellow? Not joy, but teeth
from your crooked smile, yet I still
meet with mine. The paleness
of palms, pressure on pulse;
a search for light.
Yet the light is white of sun
not like my drawings in crayon
screaming purity, sanctity, yet I see
an unused canvas, or
an empty painting?
For its gild of mixed hues
is something akin to black,
seemingly dirty, but not;
doors through a painting
too complex for a name.
(1.6.18)
YOU ARE READING
reconsideration.
PoetryWhat a thrill to be a thought: thin as a film strip, thrust into a cacophony. Yet it's funny how I've met my loneliness as a friend. I've searched for my soul in heated hands and histories, token treasures and stolen homes. All that came was a hollo...
