I always thought the world was black and white,
My parents believed it was full of colour,
And I in my youth believed myself the adult.
Black and white,
Black and white,
Like maths – either right or wrong,
Until I met a boy.
I don't remember his clothes or smile,
When I first beheld his face,
It was full of grace,
Like an angel in his place,
No man had ever stood,
With such casual care,
While helping those he loved.
He turned away and I refused,
For him not to see my face,
Disgraced by love I turned unworthy,
He caught me by the arm.
Like a child I beheld him,
As my breath stole away,
Like learning to breathe I followed him,
Trying not to stare.
We swam in summer,
Every creek our bush supplied,
And burned in winter,
Every fallen log.
It was the day he didn't offer me his arm to hold,
And instead sank to his knee,
I realised he had loved the time,
And had not really loved me.
This ring was not just white I saw,
Bu was coloured crimson too.
A man that wanted my heart for fun,
And all of my time to boot.
He saw not my souls desire,
And his grace ended with his blood of passion;
Yet kindness flowed there,
His family knew,
He was not the colour black.
I had no desire to be an ornament,
And clearly he was not white,
I realised in that instant,
My parents had been right.
He was not a colour to be distained,
As he did not understand himself,
He would not listen to me explain.
But he was not a colour for me to love,
And this my parents taught me not,
Every heart is full of colour,
And every mind must make a choice.
YOU ARE READING
The Crimson Letters
Tiểu thuyết Lịch sửI decided to write poetry about my experiences growing up and the issues I see in the world.
