The way the words looked in midair,
And hung.
The way that “hate” seemed red
And rose with heat.
The way my “why” seemed illusory- so elusive and smoke.
A frail and blue shell withering.
The way that one word,
Hate-
Its proud, vulcan power,
Made me think back.
To when I'd see a perfect “love” every night,
An innocent-pink-cloud apparition.
To when a rare and welcome “proud” would appear
And glow a chaste yellow.
To even when “right” and “wrong” were far off,
Dull, matte, brown things.
And “play” and “plenty” seemed all too ready
And stretched out like a green-grass field
Beneath my feet.
Still-
The way the words looked in midair-
I could only see red.
-c. c. Condry
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 8:21 PM UTC
The way the words looked in midair,
And hung.
The way that “hate” seemed red
And rose with heat.
The way my “why” seemed illusory- so elusive and smoke.
A frail and blue shell withering.
The way that one word,
Hate-
Its proud, vulcan power,
Made me think back.
To when I'd see a perfect “love” every night,
An innocent-pink-cloud apparition.
To when a rare and welcome “proud” would appear
And glow a chaste yellow.
To even when “right” and “wrong” were far off,
Dull, matte, brown things.
And “play” and “plenty” seemed all too ready
And stretched out like a green-grass field
Beneath my feet.
Still-
The way the words looked in midair-
I could only see red.
-c. c. Condry
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