I would return as the breath of color,
slipping through the thin weave of light—
on water broken in concentric whispers,
on wood bruised by the weight of storms,
on the folded pocket inside a shadow.
I would pulse in the ache of blue,
thin and receding like a winter dusk;
I would rust quietly, unhurried, unargued,
settling into the pores of steel and bone,
the quiet green where time forgets to ask.
Light would be my motion, my silence,
a windless tide reshaping the weather.
I would bleed into hands like borrowed fire,
stain fabric with the last breath of twilight,
linger at corners where rooms lose their edge.
No body to bind this faint existence,
no task but to appear, then wither.
I would be the softest echo, retracted—
a kind of shimmer, then a kind of oblivion.
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Comments2
Reflections in this poem Gray well written my friend
Thank You Soren. Please pray for my Dad he's having brain surgery to remove the tumor Thursday. Hopefully after that he can start radiation or chemo.
You are most welcome Gray he is in my thoughts Gray
bravo. beautifully written and conceived. and I wish your father well.
Thank You
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