Orange.

No. The sun was yellow.

It rose liquid above the

blank ribboned highway.

We were sped along it,

hands spread against the glass.

Below the light it lay, unmoving,

the blood soaked body,

and you begged it to suck air into lungs.

Open eyes. Scream out a loud high pitched

Orange.

No. The balloon was yellow.

It rose lifted and moved by the breeze,

unable to lay down anchor.

Naked tree limbs reached for it.

High, with fingers stretched out,

yet too far below enough

and the balloon drifted into a great,

wide crater colored

Orange.

No. The stars were yellow.

I sang below them,

all the songs you taught me to sing.

We knew, by heart.

All the notes flew into the dark sky.

Spilled themselves without shame,

Became a bright red firey

Orange.

No. The ball was yellow.

The mouth drooped downward

and the eyes searched mutely,

unable to shape words.

Sad sorrowful clown.

Paint on it a smile beautiful and bright

Orange.

No. The flame was yellow.

It beat hard and fast.

It was clothed in flesh and bone.

To the pain, it pleased and begged.

It did breath, after all.

Don’t tell me it was

Orange. I know what I saw, and I saw

The bright blue sky fill with warm pale light

beneath pink and purple clouds.

As long as I live I will never forget it’s hue.

It was

Orange.