Black.
Words on a page
lines, edges, curves -
forms forming lives.
Black.
Days marking age
a path that swerves
climbs, dips, and dives.
Black.
Painting contrast
taste of sorrow
stronger than pain.
Black.
Teachings that last
’til tomorrow
then taught again.
Black.
Reasons to pray
things that are sought
names that we hail.
Black.
The close of day
wandering thought
depth and detail.
Black.

White.
Clean, blank paper
untouched by ink
beautifully rare.
White.
Rays that taper
bright eyes that blink
with time to spare.
White.
Tears that glisten
wiped on a palm
peace found after.
White.
Friends that listen
kisses that calm
tinkling laughter.
White.
New ways to cope
learning to feel
wind on the face.
White.
The light of hope
which makes joy real
a warm embrace.
White.

Things that are white are black.
Things that are black are white.
There are things I can’t take back.
There are things I can’t make right.
I paint my world monochromatic.
My palette is simple and my brush is wide.
I call it “life” and it’s automatic.
I feel things that don’t fit a side.
I see colors in shades of gray.

Gray.

Gray is life. It is emotion. Gray is an effervescent stream of essence in a vein of coursing blood. Gray is not black. It is not white. Gray is not cut and dried. Gray is life.