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?
