Sequestered and wild from the depths of emotion is beige;
a slender, cobblestone passageway that leads straight into the mind
rummaging through troubles
as ice in the field ruts crackles under feet
Could it be so that swans smudged white with winter aren’t envious?
They create ghost shapes,
against the curdled skies, conscious of heartfelt song that pours;
beige is a morning walk around the harbour and back.
there is a certain resonance; muted sighs melding with storm,
it urges one to flirt at the edge of danger,
holding onto the rail knowing anything is possible—there is no concept
and wrong only different outcomes.
Beige, is a splinter of logic lodged inside us like a scrying glass, a mirror
upon which we turn out stories untold.
Photo credits: “Ice skate rink,” by Iryna Yermolova, Pinterest
Mish hosts at dVerse and invites us to write from the perspectiveof being a colour. Come join us! 💝
Posted for Poetics: “True Colors,” @ dVerse Poets Pub