Death, in Technicolor.

False prophets and photography

Of a past in shades of gray,

Since nothing is ever black and white.

We’re always in between,

Always in the middle,

Between jobs and lovers

And paychecks of the heart.

Love is crueler than war,

Though they are both fair,

And close, well, close,

Is what’s between me and you,

Not hand grenades or horses’ shoes.

I am aimless,

Carelessly shooting arrows,

Purposely destroying

What was never hurting anyone.

I do not care anymore.

I’ve not one good reason,

I die every time I wake,

And every breath is

One closer to the last.

The past becomes colored;

Our future is dead.

Reviews

[Bethany Woody]

It's like we are just drifting in life. From one unimportant moment and event to the next. Just waiting until our time is done and we move on to what comes after death. There are moments that have a larger affect on us then others but none that are everlasting. I also get the idea thatif we don't change how we are drifting then none of it will mean anything in the end. That we have to change what we can to make the more important moments matter. I'm not 100% sure I'm reading this right, but reguardless the words are strong and make you think.

[Moineau]

I like this poem allot. Love is crueler than war says it all. Interesting contrast between hand grenades and arrows. I assume the latter refers to Eros? Cogent metaphor. Thank you for sharing.

[nocturnalbeast]

WOW...!!!
Very powerful!!!.
Funny thing is...I have a poem called
Venting, In Technicolor.!!
[[U SHOULD read it.!!]]