the city
through shattered windows and
broken shards of glass,
black and white scenes
appear in more than dreams.
and in the light of the
glowing sun,
headphones in,
jeans ripped as hype begs,
he stands at a cross.
it's strange, a miracle;
a young atheist mourning over loss
at a sacred place.
a firm youth praying for more
than this madness.
he's colorblind in the city,
seeing it all in greyscale
at the request of his heart.
his god gives no reply,
and no color returns.
as if to mock him,
only a face is given.
a cold, unloving face with
such a monotone expression
he could reach out
and feel only vapor.
a cloak is pulled over
his head,
so only his eyes are visible.
dark, shimmering satin.
it covers his hair and his pride,
a protection layer to guide his mind.
and it cannot
shield his aching heart,
but it can hide him
from more bitter loves.
he's colorblind in the city,
lonely as it is but
at the request of his heart,
he takes it.
he questions society's expectations,
sometimes; however,
usually the clouds with so-called
silver linings tire him
too quickly.
and the worst thing to imagine
is another broken heart,
another world of hurt,
until he just
may
die.
he's colorblind in the city.
YOU ARE READING
11/10 poetry
Puisihi. here are some poems. take them they are my children they get better as they go, trust me. i'd just read the newer ones if i were you
