Drifting, off into the black, where all is color, but color is nothing.
taste is the essence of mystery, only defied by sweet nothings
nothing, pictured as everything ever desired. Everything, as ice.
I want serenity, and light. But I must stay in the black, that’s
all consuming? Must I remain ignorant, and hidden from these truths?
Must I love and be loved, but only be limited to the unloved? The color
is returned, but I remain in my slumber.
| 
Email this Poetry
| 
Add to reading list
