wordplayground

Eventually, we all lost the perfumed, 
bejeweled world, beyond which lies
silent anarchy. The yellow of burnt grass
evaporates like fumes. Poof! The green
of leeks is gone. You’re robbed of the rich
ripe browns of feces, the ringing inner
pink of grilled beef. The watery gray 
of writing and drawing ink fades away
too. Clear-seer, observer of matter’s
never-ending attempt to reduce or augment
itself into just light, does color’s flight
prefigure your coming nothingness: mud to flesh
to thin air, or will some tendril at last
burst from you: saffron, black, or earwax
orange, to scare the pants off both atheists
and verse mongers - a spindly rebellion
germinated for ages, not in follicle or marrow,
but in that maypole of our emotions: fear, 
whose multicolored ribbons flutter 
and flutter like nerves branching
from a backbone - they twitch and sting
but can never be grasped. Throughout 
the pervasive gray of disgrace, the purple 
of complaint, despite your alternating caresses
and attempts to shrug me off, I swear 
by the reek of the dung heap, by the slip
and slide of white silk, by the feelings
you stupidly unleashed in me, I will never
lose you completely in the gathering tide
of colorlessness, due to love’s stubborn tint.