22 Colors

The Alabaster Provoke

created all the bastard folk

The ones who turn Red

from too much of a White, bright and Yellow sun

gives no hesitation on speaking of us

As, "the hardest. working. ones"

Little do they concur, funny enough-

the families of the Bistre skin

will not think twice to beat down on its own vary-kin

From the soul to its flesh,

when they hear the "Boohoo's"

of the brood

then, the look that their own carries

morphs into an Eminence of Purple and sore, Glaucous hues

Beaten; Brown is now Blue

The punctured Pink mind surrounded in sloshes of red

now feels so heavy- almost, it's dead

filled to the brink with ancestral dread

The mind now confused,

twisted and plastered

between Seafoam sick Greens,

sitting amass the Battleship Greys,

floating among Wild Blue Yonder,

and atop of the seas, drowned in dollops of grief

The body now stunned, left in rocky-shake breaths

They know, all too well,

their damage takes care of the rest

Even if it be,

the great token Bisque

eventually,

the yellow that dances with Orange

encompassing bliss

begins to become an achromatic nightglow

when sacrificed time isn't met

with the promised quid pro quo

After a while, Tuscan Tan eyes appear more-as red,

on the inside - Olive, all intertwined

by the splashes and hints of Venetian and Spanish

And no! It not be from anger!

As mad, it may seem

It's due to long hours

Brown self is fatigued.

Out of enriched vision emerges a blurry, small haze

With days upon days,

Even a gaze in mid-daze

The eyes that were made

and meant to see past

the peripheral piece

Remain staring

blankly ahead

Forward and towards

A liquid-jelly-screen

with a color-shifting prism trapped from within

Look closely enough between the mini, small smidgen

Focus in

on the tiny, Black lines

that separate the rest

but bleeds into another,

affecting the multicolor

creating such a lovely, grand text

Can't help myself of pride

Or think about the elders of my tribe, and of all kinds

And how I've done them good

'Fore they could "never receive" a job on the inside

Forced to feel happy

or be welcomed with guilt

I am now furthest away from the land that's been killed

Can't have a moment to revel in

Anything, or comprehend

Their phlegmatic inert

The colorless people

do, in fact, have a way of life

with their problematic, paradigmatic praxis of carnage

followed by avarice of heritage

and usurpations of folklore

Their undeserved, ransacked helm

and the rummage of riches that they've selfishly held

Keeps me in the never-ending cycle of stuck occupation

to aid in alimentation

of the trapped Wenge situation

The ones who lack culture

but smeared their lineage of dried cruor

and drained us of, our now, lacking vital fluid

That Magenta and pink, mixed in with the white

created a tone

for what they've always liked

To hear this, they may be psyched; heartrate might spike

To be called the color of Cultured

is ironic, itself

the phrase Life's Funny emanates the remark

And now the ones who were closest to nature are far worlds apart

struggling to seem with presented esteem

we live for Them now

Making the greenback,

wherewithal,

We patiently await for a forestall,

Old Burgundy brawl,

A momentous, disembodied, metaphysical maul

I'm ready for mine to caterwaul.