A friend warned me once,
told me to steer clear
that all it gives is pain,
but that’s not how I see it,
the hue can change.
It would be a lie
to say it didn’t feel like I was wilted and dry,
sitting alone wounded, exhausted, spent,
cursing the sun lit contagion.
But to me,
a youngster with his head
full of yellow and orange dreams,
the colors tend to whisper breathlessly,
shift and shimmer
from translucent to opaque,
sometimes coming
as a glossy sheen.
Now though it seems
to be
not the color of dark mystery
but the soft light edge of a dawn,
where it stands above a spread
of complimentaries.
Out of sight, a memory lingering,
a fire light I saw for the first time
when I couldn’t distinguish
between dreams and reality.
The Sketchy Kids 