Zynezthezia

Zwankhuizen – such a jumbled beat,

a jagged name where sounds compete.

Tell me: if you’re a synesthete,

is it ice-cold, devoid of heat?

A citadel where villains meet?

A lightning storm or cracked concrete?

Or is it bright, its lines replete

with plumage like a parakeet?

Delete, delete, delete, delete

We don’t need names to feel complete.

It’s patrilineal conceit.

Look, I’m still me

the shades you see

my aura’s playful pulsing suite.

Uniqueness changes with the light,

an endless dance of bland and bright.

How can a name by any right

speak up for me where colors might?

With sapphire blue and scarlet red,

with forest green and slate grey lead,

my colors and my thoughts all meet

as words upon the notebook sheet:

“Hello. My name is obsolete.”