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Poem

In every battle
There are colors that paint
As the time ticks and
The brush strokes
Hues are seen
Not by the eyes but
By the heart that leaps like ghosts.
Yellow says yes under the moon's romance
And the green transcends
The inevitable tie of tea and man
Calm, fresh and life well-loved
For the red comes aglow
In the mother's breast
And the cradle that gathers
The angels--mirth and hope
Captured in the bottle, preserved.
Never will they pink
For the orange and purple will mingle
Like a chamomile orchard and apiary
Where the gentle wind brings forth white
The color of handshakes and doves
Then the feathers caress
The dreams of the young
To tread the road, to meet one
Who will help her loads
And the blue foreborne
As well as the dark
For they are perched along the way
There at all times night or day
Even the rainbow could lure the sight
For years it's chased by thousand knights
It's not there yet it hid
The golds of which the colors where not yet told.

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