It’s forty-five later and I feel fine
My raiment of half-knit intentions and twine
Unfinished commitments on an unstable shelf
Obscuring my menagerie and wax that was melt
The walls are still cracking from our caterwaul song
And my heart is still breaking at what love’s become

It’s forty-eight later and I’ll give it time
Copasetic amidst it all… and I feel fine.

I stuck my hand in a thorn bush
To follow what was free
Then painted a pretty picture
With the color that would bleed

I sat on the doctor’s couch
And he said to stay in the lines
I told him he was ash to me
My colors won’t be confined

My offspring are as promises
Pigments in rich oil
My imagination, she always sits with me
Through calmness and through toil

People see all my colors
And they often do assume
That a rainbow would seem pale near me
But they’re so far from the truth

Color brings and freedom rings
And hope is a fragile seed
Ask not for whom the bell tolls
The bell, it tolls for “we”

This chromatic facade that alludes to God
In tints and hues alike
I complete the “we” and we water the seed
And the seed is filled with life

I stuck my hand in a thorn bush
Screaming, “Would you look at me”
Then colored another page
In this therapeutic scene.