Black
like night.
Black
like oil.
Black
like money, like misery,
like war.
Black
like parenthood, like suicide, like cremation.
Black
like the staining of the grass.
Black
like the lack of air.
Black
like the burning leaves,
the pregnant tears,
the five-hundred shadows that fell on Guillemont.
Black,
like grief like empathy like
yearning for the impossible.
Like survival like graveyards like the sound of one-hundred clapping generals.
Black like the deathcaw of a crow
black like five-hundred breaths sounding at once
black like a eulogy like a funeral prayer like hearing the kaddish murmured into the mud black like loss like dead stars likebulletsbeingextractedfromwounds.
Black.
Like that day,
when our eyes turned inward and refused to acknowledge
the colour of our souls.
About the Creator
Sean Bass
A poet and author from Liverpool, I have been published at dreamofshadows.co.uk and love to write.
I am extremely appreciative of anyone who reads my work. Thank you.
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