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It’s Never Just Black and White

It’s Never Just Black and White

Black’s
the lack
of white, they say…
but when all of that is
swept away,
the colors feel
as though they kill, while they
feel like
so much more.

Lies incise
our lack of trust.
No we’s but
just
the lack of us.
The truths accrue,
but never are they
sworn.

And never are they worn.

Rings are things.
The lack of us,
alone, has placed
those
rings aside.

Our eyes have sighed,
but never
have they cried.

So if death is just
the lack of life,
I’m dying here
without my
wife.
Truly, there are things
we never should’ve done.

And, although, I know
I’m not the one…
what’s come has come, what’s
done is done.

So if black is just the
lack of white
and days are just the lack
of night,
I don’t know if I’ll ever see the sun.

I’m annulled and dulled by
bittered skies.
I’m destroyed by all her
bitter lies.

I have a ring- inside a nightstand-
that I hide.

Yet still I’d do
so much for love,
although it’s done its naught for me.
And still I’ll always fight for love,
although it’s never
fought for me.

I’ll never say
this callous love-
although I’m done-
is not for me.

Whether black’s the lack
of anything,
what’s now become
has got to be.

Black’s
the lack
of white, they say…
but when all our love was
swept away,
the colors felt
as though they’d kill,
but now they feel
like so much more.