THE COLOR RED
Through the window of tomorrow, one cannot see today...only yesterday is clear and it is color faded and pale moonlight.
It is yellowed leaves and falling dust gently swirling as if dancing in the heated breath of night.
Where does all the sorrow hide until it slowly rises up? It is always there but it's hidden in the light.
Dressed in camouflage, hidden in the smoke screens, wrapped in shadows of the darkest night.
No quiet place in this world of constant interruptions, too well one learns the lessons only despair can teach.
Just a lifetime of used-to-be's, and might-have-been's though the dreams are still there just beyond one's reach.
Morbid is the mind of one who's left undone; alone and confused. Torn from the light and cast,
back and forth until no bearing will bring them round, nor pull them up or hold them fast.
Ah...long ago the brilliance of the truth hurt the eyes; now it is muted because we got too close.
To see what was, we must understand what is, before we face the other ghosts.
Rarely left alone, endless demands for ears and eyes. No comfort is found in words so easily thrown,
until one day it does come to light, yielding so gracefully as the sterile seeds of time are sewn.
'What-might-have-been' destroys the sweet innocence of hope; which soon goes down in ashes.
Soundless, the night wraps the day in the darkest haze, and there underneath the stars all hope dashes.
I take no comfort in the truth because it makes the rest a lie. A lie that draws the color red,
but upon a closer look there is no color left to see, only falling tears and words left unsaid.
It is the truth that sets us free. But the truth grows cold as the chill first finds its way inside.
Waking then to only silence, wandering round only to feel the truth of love denied.
The emptiness of words unspoken, lie in silence, like the mouths of open graves so dark and still.
Who knows what drifts upon the winds that blow or what may lie over the next hill.
There was once comfort in the new exchange of feelings and in those first tender words.
Yes, it would be so pretty, but for the loss that rides on the backs of wingless birds.
The one you knew is no longer here. They have changed, merely from the rubbing off of you.
The heart lies beyond the reach of clenching hands now grown weak from trying to hold on to you.
Nothing more can one heart take...before the lonely heart does break.
No, nothing more can one heart take ...before the lonely heart does break.
No, nothing more can my heart take....before this lonely heart does break.
JANET BROWN 12/2013