Black
a poem from the kaleidoscope of color collection
Does it come before everything or,
After the annihilation of totality, delicately reminisced
Between fleeting memories of The Imagined Past, which
lies.
Or, is it all that ever is true, the
Black rain that falls after every funeral and
Before each wedding cake is relished, delicately divulging
lies.
But, does a lie about itself become true? Black
is lying when it says, “There is nothing here!” for —
Every color’s wave is devoured and sumptuously regurgitated in
heat


“Lies” love it.