Where are the Colours?

My front door was red

when I was eight years old.

Twenty years on, though faded and worn

its still the same colour its always been

but I don’t see red.

/

I stopped seeing colours with crisp lines

when cars stopped staying in their lanes.

I stopped asking why the sky was blue

when I noticed it spent more time being grey,

or settled into inky black, purple too

It wasn’t just blue.

It’s never just blue.

/

Maybe the man on the street

was not a failure in his tent.

Though the trees lost their leaves

it was mild enough to stay in the open air

where he could breathe.

/

I spied him from my rooftop,

saw he watched just like me

and knew most fervently

that he possessed the better view.

If a question drifted down from a height

the man might hear,

Where do you see the reds and the blues?

***

Thanks for reading!

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