The Pane

 

every color spread like a pall,

the world fully alive in essence and look,

this I know, but can’t quite recall,

torn pages, stolen from my book,

 

since the reign of color,

I’ve been, abandoned, forsaken,

given a shattered muller,

since the tones were taken,

 

trees wept drops of living ochre,

leaves fluttered onto the grassy slate,

flowers bow, yielding to their ruler,

this new world, should I hate?

 

the colors trickled down,

every lane and channel,

on the window, to be drown,

thus ends the worlds dismantle,

 

gray became black with grime,

webs of fissures were spun,

catching dust, dirt and time,

even now, it still is not done

 

something dear, lost along the way

in the confusion, silently mislaid,

persuading myself; things were okay

but without my emotion, I was only a shade

 

grime smudged darkness,

on everything I see,

still, it grants solace,

to whatever’s left of me,

 

tired, worn, and raw red,

pupils stare out the window,

probing the barren, and the dead,

hopeless of anything to grow,

 

if only I could see past,

the dirt, chips and the cracks,

discover the glooms contrast,

greens and blues; without any black,

 

turn away, close our eyes,

fight this curse, make anew,

stand errant against these lies,

but it’s all we ever knew,

 

how many days of fall have I seen,

drift drearily past this pane,

my eyes finally unclean,

the lens, a permanent stain,

 

without hope, what remains,

stand unnoticed here below the ground,

abraded scars clinging to my chains,

regarding visual music, devoid of sound,

 

but someday, someone,

wander here and find,

what I am, where I’m from,

wash it away, cure the blind,

 

but long is the road,

and far is the stage

but all this I know,

it's all there, on the last page,