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The Color of Terror

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Once, they used to associate
the color of terror
With a shade darker than midnight,
Folded deep between the blacks,
They say darkness is never frank.

 

They claimed, the ghouls hung after dinner,
After the 7 pm soap opera,
The ones that feared the smell of light,
Scandalized by afternoons,
Only protected by a bribed moon.

 

I fear there’s been a mutation,
A transformance of some sort,
Holding the clear sky a witness
To misfortunes marring the bright of day,
The watching sun didn’t scare them away.

 

So as we’re scattered,
Playing along,
As specs in a dynamic universe,
Stirred by life’s invisible hands,
Believing in our clockwork plans,
The oil falls and the painting is saturated,
Disrupted, disfigured, ravaged,
Beyond the setting of all the bad bad tales,
Trouble trickles wherever it falls into place,
Never caring to merge into the painting with grace.

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One Comment

  1. this is a whole another level, but that’s what it always feels like with your poems.. good to read your work again.. this piece is not only inspiring, but also open to interpretation which tells a lot more than it seems at first.. well done 🙂

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