Yellow And Maroon

All these homes are gray, with a tinge of blue.

Stone cold paths of rock.

Some blood-red, scarlet hue—

All dead and all dried, laid a bed of grue.

Scattered wide and spread—

The shade of my anger and dread.

Sweet sweet childhood, they said.

But my childhood was painted red.

The same as this street that led my two feet

Where these two roads meet.

I tread.

All these thoughts are blue, pitch black, deep red.

I stand and I wait by the rusty windmills,

Sitting atop the grassy old hills—

Where all the grass is dead and browned till they are red.

Again and again the throbbing shade of red.

Or a heartless blue, or maybe black instead.

But I can't stop thinking red.

The colder, icy blue.

The lifeless, lightless black.

The bloody, gruesome red.

But wait.

Wait. Who is that?

There, by the valley. Do you see?

The woman—who might that be?

In a maroon dress and hair in a bun.

Watering flowers under a yellow sun.

I look for a while, from the end of the mile.

I can still see her smile.

But she took note of me.

So must I turn away.

But she is walking this way,

And she walks up to see.

I blush out my colour in the gaze of her power.

My breaths become slower.

Yet she hands me a flower.

A yellow sunflower.

Now every day I stand under red afternoons.

Or the cradle of light of the bluest of moons.

I do not know why, and I can not know why,

And I will not know why, but—

I catch myself thinking of her.

In her maroon dress.