City Colours

Dizzy goes my mind.

Subtle movement is all it took.

A tilt up toward blends of blue and white.

Invisible possibilities.

Bracing against stained brown fabric

that felt like home,

racing against warm breeze

that spoke to me.

Warmth hugging my cheeks,

reassuring me of where I belong,

as I gaze out troubled,

passing through all six amalgamated

municipalities of exhilarating

Toronto.

Peeks of prominent pillars, vividly beaming white.

Neat. Clean. Spaces of privilege.

Yet, we return to chilly, brown-grey haze

and glistening yellow tape hugging

sets of swings and slides

of those different,

but the same towns.

Who else that giggled with freedom

and felt deep-belly butterflies,

releasing pure energy into those playgrounds

imagine the same fantasy:

the luxury of joy with neither fear nor worry?

That which one may find close in proximity,

yet, so far in feasibility.

Instead, when asked what success means to us,

we push aside the big dreams and desires

we formed in our young, feeble minds,

as heads shift back and up

toward blends of blue and white,

invisible possibilities,

only to reply,

“I could’ve been dead at 15.”

An unfortunate reality of what so many

hope they get the chance to say.

Another fantasy.

With enormous shapes of weight in my stomach,

dizzy goes my mind,

pensive from brothers and childhood friends.

On the news,

what will they call you?

Homicide victim number 21, 22, or 23?

Far from plastic red steps and hooks

attached to corroding metal bars,

you choose to live a life of misery.

Maybe not so much for you, but for the ones

who raised you.

The mother and her friends who fought so hard

to save you.

The one that put breath into a body that

may no longer exist

because a part of her will die with you.

Don’t fall for it.

The air gets warmer,

the sun gets sharper,

and still, solid metal triggers are

incessantly pulled back,

becoming one with vessels of skin and flesh,

abandoning never-before-seen souls

Blood flowing through

cloaking ends of Toronto alleyways,

soaked up by cold concrete

as boys plummet backward

or collapse to their knees,

falling victim to these streets.

The only time bright colours are seen.

When yellow tape glows,

embracing old, rugged bark,

and wide-awake eyes

meet the coalescing of red and blue lights,

solving wonder with its cacophonous voice.

So, I contemplate if solutions still float in the sky.

Though, I haven’t tilted my head back in a while.

Enough engagement between

my fingertips and soft silicon

or touch-screen buttons that hold the power

to tell the pitied stories perpetuated

by our communities and

dizzy goes my mind.

But still somehow,

through the bold red streaks of pain

of the children who bear witness to it all,

our smiles gleam the brightest

Radiating gold rays of light,

they sparkle with diamond-like essence

and through transparent crystal veils,

one can see the duality

that is us.

The kids that grow through their colours,

the kids that rename their colours,

the kids that give new meaning to their colours,

constantly expanding the pigmented spectrum of love and hope

through their range of coexisting heartache.

Proud of all the colours we were dealt,

all the colours we moulded and still re-create,

and all the colours we continue to gain.