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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 02, 2018

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Submitted: August 02, 2018



Yellow always looks like pound cake  

Crumbs I never ate,

 A bitter lemon aftertaste,

The searing detritus from an empty star— 

No wish left to make, 

Butter-slathered theater floors— 

The consumerist-carnage one adores 

While blackness hides its true form, 

 And you are free from crispness

And definitions 

Until the yellow lights fiercely glisten, 

And that fatal ignition detonates 

All lovely, blurry, limitless shapes. 

They have all been burned,

Captured, replaced 

With a squalid fairy-flash 

And a sallow changeling face 

That once could've been anyone.

Now there is you 

And a bag of yellow kernels 

Left to the mess and a painful, sour hue 

From the double-door portals

To a blinding world— 

An overdose of sun 

After the comforting possibilities of "who knows?" 

A guessing game  

With enigmatic, romantic shadows. 

© Copyright 2018 Heather Renea Teague. All rights reserved.