By Richard LeDue
We believe we're safe, sealed away behind walls, white as snow because we were told to repaint every five years, while memories of artificial trees (always green), appear immutable, but just long enough to fool us, like the angel on top until the lights burned out, and our eyes have become dull as overspent pennies that fall from pockets, unnoticed.
I want to be like graffiti, not that pale paint, usually on sale for half price, out of fashion, and used to colour the guest room, or worse, become a vanilla envelope, containing an apologetic letter no one will ever read. I want to be misspelled words, backwards letters, a crass message you can't ignore, instead of a a well policed wall, saying nothing.
My words try to be vivid, but they're never enough, while I chase darkness trying to make midnight mean more than a flickering light bulb I'm too lazy to fix, and I keep promising myself to repaint our front steps, as if a brighter colour could say more than this poem.
It took us too long to realize the shadows at night a redundant paint job, just a second coat of darkness we buy into because of a smooth sales pitch from someone who seemed to know how to mix colours, only for us to lie awake, doubting it all.