Indigo You Are Violet
voices skating secrets across the rim of a wine glass,
breath advocating a glance. Plucking nerves like a guitar string
wind revealing the liars tongue,
never failing to encapsulate
the quiet tuck, serenades of existence
pouring solitude down a rusty rainspout
to particular seasons that shadow
a present future;
as corrupted stain glass contributes
a haunted soldered image.
We never fully realize the petals won’t wilt,
gardens remain constant
hope becoming a postal card;
parchments sealed with the adieu
real like hairline cracked sidewalks
sowed by constant sorrow.
Distribute me from your straight jacket of resents,
sanction me to feel the softness of
the salt water breeze;
a chance meeting with eyes unable to ascend
knowing that the plural form of time is indigo
you are violet.
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