A poem to honor those who know their way around this Earth a little more than most

"White...is not a mere absence of colour; it is a shining and affirmative thing, as fierce as red, as definite as black...God paints in many colours; but He never paints so gorgeously...as when He paints in white." -- G. K. Chesterton

White

is streaming bands of
vibrant

shades of

melting, blending, violet—

bright as the light

still shining on her own tiny corner of

yesterday.  Every day

bleeds together when you’re young

as daisies, freshly kissed by the eternal lips

of spring.  But 

turning back (the rusty knob)—
peeling off
the layered years,
white reaches to the other side
of photo snaps, leaping the murky,
chaotic synapse to then…

And us, again we’d get sucked in—we’d fight
for right
but white
knows better… knows
that we can’t live forever
dazzling in pinks and blues and
who do we think we are?
To claim this world as our own…
this home as only our
home...

white knows
It’s not.
Before her earthly tones
fade, her rosy façade
gives way to
rot…
save for yourself a
lock of brilliant
white.

Because white is fuchsia,
drunken lust, aquamarine-rimmed
aureoline bliss and
bisque--
riding high in a tangerine sky of
sienna and turquoise-tinged
umber…

where
coral and crimson clash,

another dash of white takes flight…

her rainbow is complete.