You marched with
blonde and cerulean:
“Purity”
like the sky above,
or
the rain beating
down a symphony silence.

The gold ring
you filched from me,
striking,
driving down my voice,
a choke,
was stifling
faded courage.

In the silhouette of my
splintered picture frame,
grey,
indistinguishable from
black and white,
but you can’t see that I
need the colour,
a splash of azure, reflected
in your eyes.
I could see mine—
dirt and blue go together
well, I know.

You crushed me
when you took that
step
of a tyrant.
Why?
I called you my brother.
Now the frame cuts
deep,
slices a trench
for my tears to follow.

Razor shards fly,
but I have never been so
rooted.
Noiseless words seeped from
your lips,
sounds of a dying soul
in uniform.
And, before you could,
I whispered,
Why don’t you
remember?