And Every Single One of Them is True

I've seen every color visible.

Crimson as the angry Walgreen's clerk

forced to work

his coworker's shift on a Friday in the summer.

Bummer.

I hope he learned how to say no.

I've seen the healing pink lemonade glow

of a monk frozen on the cover of Rolling Stone.

Pink is a state of flow.

I've seen peacock blue in the narcissist

who parades his false perfection.

May he learn his hardest lesson

and give himself to self-reflection

and hope he's all done with the show.

I've seen hazel, basil and sage

in two vast mysteries in the mirror.

Autism and PTSD

and translucent tears that I hope

of hope glimmer.

I don't need diagnosis,

I recall the trauma

and self-medicate with marijuana and Oms.

I've seen restless, broken triple rainbows in the morning traffic oil

at a rainy bus-stop as a kid

and its cousin iridescence in bubbles

in the wind

Not every dark sadness is blue.

I've seen every color visible

and every single one of them is true.