What is silence
if not an oasis
in the dry, skin cracking sands of sound;
where sentiments that were left in the sun
can quench their thirst
and grow into reflections, into thoughts,
into ideas that have the power and ability to grow
not out of necessity, nor desire,
but out of existence and instinct.
And what is darkness
if not the sponsor of light and color
the ally that gives yellow it’s power against purple,
green its riches, red its blood —
and if sky was orange and earth blue,
our weight would be greater
our nature, stolen.