I understand your moody seasons.
I know why you have to be yourself, why sometimes it’s gray.
Night, I know intimately,
we’ve shared countless cups of coffee.
Colors are all chameleons,
not even light is constant,
dying out all day long,
gasping for breath, choking on shadows.
This white shirt under black light
shines the truth between reality and illusion.
Or, how the light of an entire universe can be
snuffed out in the glow of a single streetlight.
Still, you rise like Hope itself every morning
to prove you have not given up on this world below.