Tuesday
April 17. 2012
Writing poetry seems to me to be a lot like cooking. Takes time to season it right, takes time to cook, allow the flavors to blend. About 8 hours writing this piece... still not sure if it's simmered enough.
Black and White
My shadow lives, his back against
the wall. Secure,
at home he feels. The cold and gritty
touch of brick
along his spine, a lover’s stroke,
strong but kind.
Here, within this crippled world color reigns with harsh
and brutal light. It carves the aging scars into my shadow’s
legs and thighs. Here, poor shadow mine, can’t possibly
survive.
Far too many colors in it, too many wrongs to right,
too many rights made wrong in it. A shadow’s life is
simpler, a peaceful world submerged in black and white.
rrw
4-17-12
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