Witness to the Colorless

September 15, 2009
By roxenshadow BRONZE, Santa Barbara, California
roxenshadow BRONZE, Santa Barbara, California
4 articles 2 photos 0 comments

She walks along the city streets in graylight--daylight--all alone
Though no recollection from the past could stop the bleeding shadows
wandering down the graveled way
As if the brushing of her lips could wipe away the weather-worn canvas;
stroking back her hair despite the puppet strings tied around her wrist
And suddenly she was gone.

The colorless sight of black and white greeted her in sky and stone,
Fear was not present and she found she would welcome the strange
beings of her nightmare blunders if only by
them could she feel anything but numb. No arrows drawn in chalk
By the blacktop path, lying silent beneath her feet, yet she walked
And suddenly she was gone.

Witnessing her blind judgment perched a standing--flying--crow
A single note erupting from its tight and mangled mind to voice piercing displeasure at this new intruder
Within his wicked wingspan lying underneath the gray light sky,
though her imagination stretched to touch his withered, charcoal eyes
And suddenly she was gone.

Past abandoned mess and ness she trudged her wary lane, though most
Peculiar spectacles she saw reflected in store windows offering...
what was to be unexpected in time
which asked the questions better left unanswered in her open jaw
So though her world was less dimensional, free of strain or law
And suddenly she was gone.

Unbeknownst to her, another stood from the desk--or cliff--above
And made her oblivious to the time she wasted underneath said lines
for her own protection, may it be.
but had she known she may have resisted the agonizing, curious pull
Of this nothing land within the confines of the pages dull
But then she'd have a heartbeat.
And a pulsing breath.
For those stuck within this dreamland of not-color--
And suddenly,
she was gone.


The author's comments:
I wrote this a long time ago...and now it makes even less sense to me than it did then. But that's the great thing about poetry-it speaks to you long after the words have failed to ingrain in your conscience.

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