Did I ever believe it to show
the true and variable colours
of my soul?
No.
I knew even then
that blue meant
skin gone cold,
not sadness or calm,
as the ring’s
pamphlet foretold.
Yet still, I’d hold
that capsule of hue,
close to my chest,
for years of my youth.
I suppose
there was solace
in suspending
belief,
in pretending that potion
could gauge my emotion,
could hear a tune
no one knew,
not even me.
In time, I matured,
grew to know my
heart’s strings,
but I still kept
that ring.
For there’s a magic
in knowing
just how easily we
can distill the complex
in our search
for meaning.
Now, on days
when the drudgery
swells overwhelming,
I still think in bruise blue-
a vibrant memory.
pm poetry 