The Colour of the Sun

A poem about living.

You could live.
But perfect pink is no fun, colours should bleed and run.
First dark brown in birth, dirt fresh from the earth,
Our veins sheathed underground, where the tunnels connect.
You could hurt.
Red is a rebirth, yellow for sunlight and stress,
“Worry less! Take any path! You could drown in the bath!”
Anxious antennae ousting cactus thorns candy spiralled in the sweetness of adolescence outreached, trying to tie the synapses into tiring knots.
You could bleed.
And like a swamp, you could stagnate in the staunch moss and stale stench, your inner growth growing death drowned beneath a constant river, livid with living trauma.
You could die.
Or worse, you could live, anaesthetized.
You could cry.
Maybe your memories would dance between the earth and sky like vultures blind, preying on the carcases of those left behind, anyone they can find, down on the ground, where the synapses disconnect.
You could run.
But you’d still be the one.
And the Moon is just a mirror that reflects the Sun, all magic undone. Like the cosmos improvising, you are that very Sun, second to none, an uncrackable code — and just like the Sun, you don’t shine, you explode.