My ink may run
as black as coal,
as dark as
a dark night
of the soul.
Or flow red hued
like the morning sky;
as red as love,
or red man's blood
on hard-baked clay.
Yellow ink hues
my many suns,
my moons
the color of
dry bone.
Blue-inked waves
may wash my
blues away,
or sing the blues as blue
as muddy waters.
Gray ink clouds
on a fog-shrouded
empty highway
take me from here
to the Blue Ridge
mountains.
White-capped sailors
sail the arctic
as lost as
my white ink
on a blank page.
r ~ 5/13/14
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