Terminal Moraine

Unwind the fraying threads of me

My fabric skin-

Unpick the bursting seams of me

Pull out the cotton wool existence of my life.

These black buttons you call eyes-

They see in black and white.

Grey-

Grey is nebulous, sounds like snow on television

Moves like a glacier- 

Yes, glacial.

Does that make us moraine? - terminal moraine.

And what if it had never carved

Those valleys in your brain?

If a minute can reverse these decisions and indecisions,

What then?

Could you see in colour again?

And would you understand- would it be worth it after all.

Could you say

After all that the palette is still grey.

Your life condensed cancels itself out-

Evaportates that droplet which bent your world inside its glassy globe.

Refracting you- distorting you into the colours you are not.

But if everything is black and white

Then hope that there is some white light

And some perfect prism hiding

in the terminal moraine.