Four Colors

A series I'm not sure about

I

Kandinsky called it closure

Resolution, satisfaction,

Surrender, the ultimate honesty.

Restraint has no place in this palace.

On a clear day, I can see very far away.

But it takes the dark night

To see what it is that is standing near

Holding my hand,

Kissing my neck.

That's intimacy, not sincerity,

Never insight.

Only when the light goes out altogether

In the womb of that darkest night

That is the mind.

II

Towards you lovers I hold hate

As though you young, beautiful,

Are meant to be happy despite this.

All of this which the quiet few are sad about.

Oh, you foolish, lucky few.

Blissful lords over your fantasy

You, you hated and worshiped

Lovers of yourselves.

III

Moods deep and thick

Inky and indecipherable.

Appearing, pooling like shadows from the moon's mockery of life onto gravel

Around the feet and under the eyes.

It leaks out of your blankets at night

And into your heart on lonely summer mornings

Before the dawn.

When it is quiet and the almost-blackness is hard to read.

Monsoon or drought

Quiet, omnipresence of dread

From dreams, chance or the nature of man.

IV

Brain matter

Neutral due to overwhelming opinion.

It can be made up

By pen-stroke or bomb threat.

But beneath that, the lion still sleeps.

Blind to the world of colors and sounds.

You convince yourself you can wake him,

But you couldn't if you tried.