An Orange Lament

The poets who wield the English language be cruel indeed.

Roses may be red

And violets may be blue

But peaches must be pink

To keep things in sync.

For there are mountains filled with fountains

And bird that fly high in the sky.

There are odes of blackberries, strawberries

Raspberries, blueberries and elderberries

There are even nectarines and tangerines

And clementine’s given to valentines;

But their cousin’s virtues remain unsung

On its phonetics they are hung.

It wonders how it feels to burn with desire

And wouldn’t fanning the flames cause a wildfire?

It cannot bemoan its sorrowful soul

Followed so cleverly by an areole.

And though less unfortunate that with baited breath

It will never taste the kiss of death,

Still it longs for whispering sweet love

As magnificent as the stars above

Ignorance may be bliss

But to never bask in true love’s kiss?

Never tossed to and fro by a raging sea

And crying out to the waves, "Oh Agony!"

Speak not of it thumping on the floor

Lest we lose the chance to say nevermore,

And unlike the far less interesting there

It can never be pared with Gossomere.

It has no friend among daze, maze, blaze, or days,

Never will it raise, raze or feel the sun’s rays.

Aghast it watches as wood

Is so carelessly paired with blood.

But it will not go quietly into the night

It will end its bitter plight,

For though the world be dark and cold

All that glitters isn’t orange.