i am not afraid of a world in greyscale.
next to the cafe i go to every sunday,
there is a shop that sells colour
in the embodiment of flowers.
though the world may continue in a monotonous black and white,
as the cold days go pass;
within a small town, in a small shopping district, in a small part of the world
there is life.
as it rains, droplets scatter across clusters of muted yellow, white, tan.
the traffic lights, the cars at the intersection,
the school of fish by the creek.
falling. falling.
everything of one shade soon glossed over in a tint of blue.
in and out of the wooden doors,
the cash register bell rings.
a drenched senior carries a handful of white tulips,
stumbling he cracks a smile "it's for someone."
walking out into the heart of the city,
his heart aches,
and his bones feel like crumbling.
he heads to the cemetery.
falling. falling.
dripping like a dewdrop,
the sky is weeping
tears full of warmth.
it wasn't nice that the petals were stained and wet
and that his wrist was red and carved with shapes.
next to the gravestone he lay until sunset.
he cried.
in the shop next to the cafe i go to every sunday,
there is strong emotion.
there is love of all kinds.
there are broken hearts ready to be mended.
