The grey hued thoughts
Laugh at what life has wrought
And I wonder at them
Within this tattered poem.
The blue of my soul
Colors me as a whole
And it bewilders me
As I write my poetry.
When did my heart decide
To not listen, but abide
By the war within my mind?
When did I say goodbye
Within the soundless, hollow cry
Of a synesthetic blind?
I do not know
Where my soul will go,
But I have hope,
And, somehow, I’ll cope.
For now I’ll make do
With all I believe to be true
And I’ll be free,
For this is what writing gifts to me.
I’ve been old, you see. I’ve been young.
I’ve thought a song was left unsung,
But you see, the shining harmony
has always been playing endlessly
And in this journey, I have found
That it is composed of lovely sounds
And until the day I understand,
I shall write with these color-stained hands.