I am colourblind
Still green is green
Red is red
And blue stays blue
Those are constants
So why are the Roses black?
I am quite the heathen
Yet good is good
Justice is justice
And treasure is treasure
So why am I still willingly blind?
I fancy myself a poet
That beautiful is beautiful
Hope is hope
And that love is love
So why do I write in invisible ink?
There is much to say, yet I think the poem can bring a meaning to all without my comments on them.