Synesthesia

 

I don’t think in grey.

My clothes tend towards the storm,

but my mind is lit

with vibrant colors.

In my eyes

the sky is blue,

the robin’s egg,

the crystal clear

lakes of my youth.

The line that stands

upon the streets

for order

and the borders

of the memories I have

of days removed.

 

I perceive in green

and no,

it is not envy

that lends me to my land,

my Earth, my garden,

my verdant inner forest.

I disappear there,

blending in

with the trees

and the tall grasses

and the undergrowth.

Home to us,

our breath,

our fresh air,

our misty morning,

sprung up

to cool the headstrong.

 

That is where

chameleon turns

to red blood rushing,

face flushed

and heart pumping to bursting.

Horizon line drawn

and even dusk can burn.

Fire light,

snap and hiss and pop;

our ancestors speaking.

Red balloon,

Fire truck,

and too soon;

the debt collector.

Currency.

Time is money.

 

Then to the flowered fields

and the maelstrom of vibrance.

How is life

not to anyone,

a kaleidoscope

of emotions,

sensations

and color?

A titillation of synesthesia.

To taste a color,

to see a sound,

to hear emotion

crying out in silent proclivity.

An amazing

and fecund world

that never once asks

to be justified.

 

Slate Grey.

Charcoal Grey.

Gunmetal Grey.

These are stone and steel,

but they are choices,

not experiences.

Not life to be lived,

but vigilant protectors.

No,

I don’t see in shades of grey;

I see fire,

I see ice

and the coming dawn

painting the sky.

 

HG – 2018