When the colors broke

apart

I could see my life

in shades and tones,

memories

sent from the painter’s palette of sky.

There was that purple night,

of car headlights

blurring across the road,

and I attempted to find

which lights

were my own.

There was that rusted book cover,

it’s spine showing age

older than me,

and older than those bricks

around the fireplace

where the flames melted

my worries.

There was that spark of white

in the night which held

my secrets,

in the scenes of those old movies,

when typewriter keys

would fill my heart

with the merriment

of the words which flowed

into to my mind.

There was that hazy black

crackling from the spinning

record, and I couldn’t hear

the words that were being

sent into the pulsing

air that flickered

around my head.

The hissing of broken notes

weighed down my thoughts,

reverberating from ear to ear,

frame to frame.

I can see them all now,

those colors

in the screen,

blended together,

those flecks

of black

and white

and red

and purple.

How long will it take

until the signal will be fixed

on this small TV,

and the colors form

an image?