Colours, Basket, Storms and Unrequited Love
sometimes he’s a basket of rainbow colours
sitting on the head of an old woman:
back bent, age stricken once
poverty stricken twice
but her husky and spent voice sing the rainbow into her her worn basket
until the storm or life begone.
other times, he’s a bridge lying still
over stormy waters, watching his dreams
being tossed up, down, left, right
in the raging arms of an angry ocean,
whose culture spells three words:
he stares at her liquid wonder spread into the horizon
he wanders, first sole deep, scared
then soul deep, fearless
until he’s drawn into the muddy whirly center of her
to become one with her water
well, tonight, he’s a trio versed poetry
carelessly scribbled on the tombstone of his dreams:
here lies genuine love, dead alive.
moan if you may, but don’t cry.