ANCIENT COLORS
It was the last sign. A crease in the weather
where the beginning blends into a final draw,
submitting to the curtain of seasons.
A pocket full of pressed parables circled
within the eventide of lost logic and
faded common sense.
The sky shouldered misted illusions casting
shadows onto the plains of wide deserts
and unnamed valleys.
We were overburdened with empty thoughts
hanging on the trellis of minced words
and half promises.
A campfire formed a veil of flames competing
with the coolness of an early night sky. We
huddled close, warming our hands. Our eyes
reflecting ancient colors.
Roger Singer 