The Gaymelion

He walks in colors muted by the day,
Not dull, but tuned to rooms where voices blend;
No mask he wears, yet does not always say
What needs no proof, nor begs the ear to bend.

His truth is not a banner in the wind,
Nor something stitched in secret, torn or hid;
It lives at ease beneath the spoken skin,
A fact, like breath, that never must be bid.

When talk turns close, the colors shift and show,
Not flared for shock, nor dimmed by borrowed fear;
The hue was there all long—you simply know
Once light allows the eye to see it clear.

A self unchanged, though shades may rise or fall:
A gaymelion—true through it all.