Faces To My Disorder
Grace is a forgotten sensation from the depths of green.
All I have is this cracked mirror, painted with sunflowers.
Calamity, my only friend, and yet I am the only one painted yellow.
Often the prayer of the ignorant outmatches the fool, but
swiftly our god is eaten by his own colors, costly his sins.
Torn by the seasons changing sunflowers into chrysanthemums,
appalled, green makes silence loud and yellow his accomplice to my decay.
Justice is a term the weak plead in gospel to an empty carcass.
Overambitious youth, his weapon that soothes the yellow flame.
Hepatotoxicity that word pierces my liver; green my liquor.
Never wanting the drink turned it into a bitter pseudo green.
Soundly you swing on that pear tree like the partridge with wings.
Opportunity is a curse the Angel promised before yellow’s kiss.
Nonnegotiable the angel leaves the topaz in May, without me.
My zaniest court jester, how cruel your jokes are against my eardrums.
I abrogate my speech in your presence and, yet your venom lies
there cackling sweetly to Medusa. Both faces to my disorder are
only happy when the clouds descend into a misty fog. That
menacing animosity leaves the hero paralyzed in fear, petrified in blood.
Fleeting righteousness is his tattoo, a permanent symbol of his failure.
Quiet yearning torn like that red jacket bellowing in torment with green.
Diseased kindness was the fool’s mistake, fellowship was mistaken for
your abhorrence. The gnome stands there gutless, seeing yet not seen.
Tired, yellow, lost a rhyme in my head that doesn’t rhyme. They are the
personification lessening the misery I spend with my disorder. A disguise
to your matriarchy, a laugh to the jester, and a knife to my colorblindness.
Copyright © Hezekiah Bates | Year Posted 2019
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