It starts with white, somehow.
Stuttered stanzas with limps of words
the black of ink roaming this
maudlin pasture of imagination
To tell this tale
grey as the heavy sky
soaked in the tears of the clouds
and the thunders that never made sense
White that were the rose petals
Eager to fall back to earth
as the purest forms of sorrow
its innocence kissing away their fears
of their looming fate of black.
Lest the omnipresent dawn breaks
The iridescent calm
that comes as the hardest pill to swallow
but slowly unfolds itself
to reveal that the clarity of love
is never spoken-
capsuled in the linguisitcs of memory.