Thoughts of an Anarchist

But here’s me doing it anyway.

Sometimes, there are paper colours

                        that the clever ones can’t see.

It’s not that they don’t want to;

(lord knows I’ve tried)

But every time we try

       they blow away, hide,

       dance in the sky

no more than a metaphor

for all I peer through their rose tinted eyes.

And so I don’t believe.

Those who can –

those lucky few –

speak in rapture of colour and hue

of golden glows and silver touch

But I see no silver, just shades of grey,

and isn’t that beautiful enough?

These colour catchers want to tame the stars, to see in black and white,

I feel no need to. (I’ve seen the light.)

And so I don’t believe.

These children, chasing a rainbow’s end

                                                a mythical pot of gold

say if I don’t believe I’ll go to darkness

and then there’ll be

 no colour

            at all.

Can’t you see?

Maybe it’s me whose eyes are blind.

Maybe I can’t see.

But show me the colours I see

            in my lover

                        in your god.

and then I WILL BELIEVE.

But not ’til then.