The Last Color

The last color
fades with the night
as the madness of a new moon,
vague, empty and eternally dark,

Yes there is dawn,
but first there is midnight and beyond,
the dark places,
where doubt and fear live,

where you stand, alternately paralyzed
or stumbling.
sometimes singing in the canyons,
letting the echoes of your voice

ring like ghosts.

This is not your first night.
You bear the scars of wandering blind,
of false trails,
of falling like a fool,

and like a fool, rising again,
impatient for the morning,
for whatever it might bring,
sun or rail, but always

light.

About this poem

Normally, I am inprobably optimistic. There are times I doubt my sanity.

The picture was taken at the quarry across from my house.

Tom