The Worth of Words

So much depends upon a red

flag,

looming and leveling in a whirlwind,

fluttering and flawing with passion,

embracing itself in misplaced pride.

Lost among the judgemental eyes,

I watch the colorful spectacle unfurl;

stupidly touched by the efforts meant to blind,

and expertly ravage.

Yet I manage to dissociate,

continue to let it fly,

hoist it up

display it proudly-

and step back,

and admire my primary-colored disaster.

When the storm subsides,

its hued damage done,

it untethers and throws itself to the wind:

Leaving me holding a string that has become a snake.

Like my rose-colored glasses,

it was all a dream.