Bored myself
setting free of the dead
and all I was able to
salvage in my return
was the sun—
not the yammering yellow
that hurts the eyes,
but a colorless one
since you take out
light to take its life:
the death of colors
maybe black isn't really
a color at all
what color is nothing
anyway?
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoetryI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
