The Shroud of Color
The brown, the red are dead, laid soft in shade,
The fruit of the flower too soon decayed.
Yet do I marvel at fate’s cruel art,
How love still lingers in a hollow heart.
For my great-grandmother, hands worn and wise,
Knew the weight of the loss in a mother’s cries.
In memory of young, in memory of old,
In the dark tower where dreams unfold.
I have a rendezvous with life,
Native red runs thick with strife.
Heritage bound in whispered pain,
Yet the wake-up world still calls my name.
Lines to my grandfather, brown boy bright,
To a pale girl dancing in silvered light.
That bright chimeric beast of dreams,
Still haunts the lost, the torn, the seen.
She of the dancing feet speaks bold,
Under the mistletoe, a tale retold.
The unknown color, the wise thoughts rise,
Through a zoo of stares and wary eyes.
For a poet, for a lady I know,
For love once burning, now lost in snow.
Do or die, the red night calls,
Yet hope still rings through shattered halls.
A Saturday’s child, a world undone,
Still lifts her voice to meet the sun.
From the dark tower, the dawn is near—
And despite it all, I persevere.
WoPoLi 
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