Black, of course-
the color of night, of death,
shade my eyes
from brighter dreams.
Red, the wilting rose
of seeping blood-
drawn from veins
now long dried of life.
Yellow, such cowardice,
afraid to go outside these lines,
for fear and wariness
color my pages in.
Green, the envy
of my longing soul,
for those who
live unfettered and free.
White, the starkness
of shadowless passings-
the purity I once knew
now dappled in darker shades.
Blue, the musical tone
of moods and minds-
meloncholy emotions
like unfading bruises.
Gray, the headstone,
of what remains-
an epitaph unwritten
and carved, no less deep.
nice!
nice!
...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "