by the plastic covering,
that is molded upon the colors,
which are laying down in the wet grass
Underneath this artificial wrapping,
slowly, the saturated pigments bleed
The dew, upon the blades becomes,
for the deep reds, royal purples, and soaked blues
To spread away from the sterile overlay
You might believe it is for the betterment
That this covering is pressed down.
You might believe it is God’s voice
Commanding you to capture life
And to pin it to the dirty ground.
But one must bleed through this,
Or, at the very least saturate
one’s pigments with robust,
that catches the passerby.
“Come closer” they whisper
See the hue, the tint, the shade,
which tells a different story
A truer story of one,
who has called all to the surface
A moment where not only 16,000 colors
are seen by the naked eye, but
innumerable emissions of life
That changes the half to a whole,
The leper to a healer,
The bleeder to a dignifier,
The failure to, “that which can be forgiven”.
May mortality lead you
To better ways than,
of bygones and blind songs
May mortality lead us to,
Truer ones that ache,
weep, lament, and yell
For more than blacks and whites,
But spectrums of the dawn rising from,
the pitch dark night.