"Colors in Grayscale"
B. Robert Ravnitzky
Colors in Grayscale
She cradles her head in an apple cauldron;
she winces when they take out her styles.
She peers over the icy cymbals,
as the drone of the drums turn lightning into fire.
Her name is written on her forehead,
so that she cannot learn its spelling.
Ignorant of pronunciation,
she tries to remember the Fifty-Fifth Cataclysm.
She authored that book, but mispelled her name.
It is credited to some other dame.
And she will sing, her voice as an errand,
her heart as a preacher and a preacher's conviction.
She knows lies as truth, and knows truth as guile.
She knows what he did, but lets him stay for a while.
She knows every purple thing, except a Purple Heart,
but things which are yellow will never be art.
O glorious contempt, thou art mine failure;
o glorious contempt, we worship not you,
but every coat of dust you've ever worn,
and every mildew you've ever touched.
O glorious contempt, might you grant me an audience,
that the world might know the love you are?
I will be your biographer, your voice and your face.
I will be your cartographer, and know every inch.
I will be your lover; you don't have to be mine.
I will be your brother. I'll do it right this time.
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