Rodeo Varro

An Anthropological Apology

It all started in a pink room before I had to set out to drink the green from the unseen distant sea. I could no longer resist the temptation to become enraptured by the frumious red of the looming horizon, however, so I ran out even further into the violet deep in the hopes of circling back to the baby blue of your forgotten embrace. I choked on our opal tears as I felt the tips of our fingers trace the scars embedded in the black of the ancestral flesh and you said it was going to be ok, all can be forgiven. You wrapped me inside the crisp familiarity of freshly laundered bed sheets of ivory white, scented by a hundred years of loneliness spent wondering in the lilies of the valley, and that's when I realized I was gifted with 20/20 spiritual insight, enhanced by my intense devotion to brotherly love, able to see the bronze in our words against the gold of so few actions, a direct reaction to the silver in the collective thoughts that cry out to banish these neon nightmares that bleach out everything so, back into the colorless void in the hopes that it can all be reborn as a brand new tint never before known to redeem our souls once more. It all started in a pink room.