Return to site

Revolution In Color

poem

Not how long have you existed, but how long

have you been truly alive.

She raced toward hinging doors

fingers laced with ivory drumsticks;

exuding laughter with music eyes, echos of chaos as notes collided with hot breath

if only she could pierce the cynicism displayed upon their faces.

I know you as the canary leaves know the rustling wind.

We sit in rows quiet and tentative

our voices lost in the silence before we speak;

to often our creative mind stifled,

oh how I long to roar

with all the holiness of this ignited imagination.

I wonder if the crow dislikes his own song.

carrots, pulled from the deep soil;

a potent smell permeating the air, a smell

of earth and promise.

Voices breaking in dispute, they stood for what they did not know.

Parrot yellow feathers tied in her hair,

tribal orange cloth draped elegantly over her hips and breasts;

how boldly she spoke, of a culture so different from my own.

Your breath is gold in my veins, your touch is fire upon my lips;

will we sit untouched in this scenic surrender

or will the words tear their way out of us.

They told me this was a revolution; I still believe.

 

By Riah Raine

Not how long have you existed, but how long

have you been truly alive.

She raced toward hinging doors

fingers laced with ivory drumsticks;

exuding laughter with music eyes, echos of chaos as notes collided with hot breath

if only she could pierce the cynicism displayed upon their faces.

I know you as the canary leaves know the rustling wind.

We sit in rows quiet and tentative

our voices lost in the silence before we speak;

to often our creative mind stifled,

oh how I long to roar

with all the holiness of this ignited imagination.

I wonder if the crow dislikes his own song.

carrots, pulled from the deep soil;

a potent smell permeating the air, a smell

of earth and promise.

Voices breaking in dispute, they stood for what they did not know.

Parrot yellow feathers tied in her hair,

tribal orange cloth draped elegantly over her hips and breasts;

how boldly she spoke, of a culture so different from my own.

Your breath is gold in my veins, your touch is fire upon my lips;

will we sit untouched in this scenic surrender

or will the words tear their way out of us.

They told me this was a revolution; I still believe.

All Posts
×

Almost done…

We just sent you an email. Please click the link in the email to confirm your subscription!

OKSubscriptions powered by Strikingly