I often think of the color black,
an unnatural shade that takes me back
to those dark days before the dawn
when my soul withered beneath her scorn.
Where else in nature does it appear,
except for those empty moonless nights
or hidden deep within the heart
where nothing grows in the absence of light?
Is it even a color at all,
to show nature’s dance every Fall
or catch the spark in a child’s eye
or the shades of blue in the morning sky?
I think not, in the end,
to think of black as colors blend.
It exists only with our passive consent
to color the world with my discontent.