She always wore black
even in summer
on tangled hair afternoons;

flips flops kicking sand
between pink toes
parading dreams
of another summer.

Those four walls
made her hate white
longing for flowers of any color

on gray afternoons
with too much shade.

She could skip winter
kissing dreams of April
in January skies
when light was the only thing

she hadn’t had too much of.



2 thoughts on “Undertones

  1. Sis…in my mind, I saw a woman, older in body but stopped forever at age 20 like a clock broken at 9:02 AM and stuck there forever having been struck by the hurt truck, all four wheels churning and screaming and squealing and burning out.

    She wanders the sanitarium halls, languorous, seemingly out of it…but alive in a place that other people don’t even know exists…

    …and she waits, because someday the door will open and she will walk outta that place like Dillinger out of the bank, guns blazing and lips laughing, hair a wild nimbus of glory.

    That is what your poem said to me, said to me, said to me
    ❤ ❤ ❤

    Liked by 1 person

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