Momento poetico

Una poesia sulla varietà di colori

                   

 It's a Crayola Life

With the box lid closed

It's dark inside,

There are no colours

We can't abide.

But a golden sliver of light seeps in,

To expose the colours there within.

We see red when enraged,

And scarlet dancers crowd our stage;

A red-blooded male brags virility

Through rose-coloured glasses of masculinity.

Some grow green with envy,

Reveal they're yellow in enmity,

      Are blue when feeling empathy,

      Turn blue holding out for sympathy,

      Are tickled pink with comedy,

        And white as a sheet with tragedy,

              Or brown-nosed with syncophany.

               If your yellow-bellied you may run,

               And green-gilled after Jamaican rum,

                Write purple prose when versifying,

               Ashen coloured when you're dying.

               True colours show outside the box,

               Use grey cells to colour unorthodox.

             Our true colours are harlequin,

              That fade to black at our end.
 

               Francie Lynch