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