Four ColorsA Poem by Daniel Affsprung
A series I'm not sure about
Kandinsky called it closure
Surrender, the ultimate honesty.
Restraint has no place in this palace.
On a clear day, I can see very far away.
But it takes the dark night
To see what it is that is standing near
Holding my hand,
Kissing my neck.
That's intimacy, not sincerity,
Only when the light goes out altogether
In the womb of that darkest night
That is the mind.
Towards you lovers I hold hate
As though you young, beautiful,
Are meant to be happy despite this.
All of this which the quiet few are sad about.
Oh, you foolish, lucky few.
Blissful lords over your fantasy
You, you hated and worshiped
Lovers of yourselves.
Moods deep and thick
Inky and indecipherable.
Appearing, pooling like shadows from the moon's mockery of life onto gravel
Around the feet and under the eyes.
It leaks out of your blankets at night
And into your heart on lonely summer mornings
Before the dawn.
When it is quiet and the almost-blackness is hard to read.
Monsoon or drought
Quiet, omnipresence of dread
From dreams, chance or the nature of man.
Neutral due to overwhelming opinion.
It can be made up
By pen-stroke or bomb threat.
But beneath that, the lion still sleeps.
Blind to the world of colors and sounds.
You convince yourself you can wake him,
But you couldn't if you tried.
© 2012 Daniel Affsprung
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