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,
hidden deep within the heart of fear
or those dark silent moonless nights
where nothing grows in the absence of light?
Is it even a color at all,
to show autumn’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 only exists with our passive consent
to color the world with my discontent.