Forgotten Colors - M.Weisgerber

Another red plug
here, waiting patiently
on this crisp porcelain.
Not mocking, merely resting
spooning the dust motes
and any simple bathroom grime.

It never traveled far,
sought out Ganges dreams,
or strange glances
at the back of dank bars.
A view of the waste dump,
is the best it can hope now.

It could have waited here,
knitting strange tomes
watching shapes pass, tall
heads stuck far above nimbus,
with eons passing easily
or another hour gone by.

But still it found me
quickly without camouflage,
helped entice me to burn
merely with its shape.
A Cheshire smile;
I recognized its tale.

Immediately hated short nights
of quiet trepidation,
bathing deeply within
gentle joys of discovery.
But hating more
all the shifting walls

made merely by this color,
curling like the toes,
sturdy as the girl
who existed to make it
hold it, mold it,
yank it to my floor.

What am I to do
if...when I find another?
Char its sweet end,
or feed it to the first?
Hope that it turns blue,
dies from its own stench.

Another will serve
as a reminder of more
that once we engaged in it,
and it was good.
Felt better than good,
bordering on great.

But great is not enough,
not for the red color,
red must be fed "incredible"
red must not be made aware
of mistakes allowable,
even if red errs itself.

But I am an artist,
and this color
remains as one -
many is my palate
by which to craft,
to create something bolder.

We are meant to avoid
mixture of such dense flavors,
because orange is stronger still,
something once possible from we two;
it is trauma overcome,
and thus could never be.