The Black

If you could spill the brink of silence, you'd find it here. I'm hidden because they make me, and now I can't let it go. Is that girl sitting over there clueless to my direction? Is she forgiven of what she's done and I'm not? Is that why she walks as if she's water and talks like there is something more, better, while I sit remembering a never born world?

If you could lend me your mind you might be scared. Scared to find that black is no costume here. Is that man over there just wondering as I am? Or is he gone, far from what I could hope today? Is he staring at me thinking, "What is there besides herself?" Or is he wanting me to transform into something that could save him?

Are we really just passing through, pawns of some greater plan, given this horrible gift of thought; of freewill and pain. Are we given them as if a joke so that someone else can say. "God, look what we've made. A beautiful chaos that will die in days. A place where you can lose yourself, where everything you create becomes the truth. and no one really connects."

But if we could see as well as we look, maybe there could be some sort of clarity. Maybe then there would be no tragedy, but another day to keep going on, and there's nothing we can do. If we could, I'd cry to you. I'd say, "Hey, it's paradise today. Let's go outside."

Because white turns to yellow, but black can swallow you instead. And we swim with stars instead of burning- your righteous white and blaring burning. I'll prefer the black today.