John Biscello

Yellow is the color of my sad, how it runs.

Some think it is blue but it is not.

Blue is the common choice for color/me/sad, the popular one (how moods get typecast),

but yellow is much sadder than blue, perilous in its flash.

It blinds you with hurt, a gentle deadly glare

that gets in and behind your eyes, a palsied bloom

deriving sickly light; it is the slow death of bees

courting honey, shadows of their agony and grace;

Yellow are the screamless mouths and dreamless hands

undiscovered at the bottom of childhood’s well

and haunt, milk-teeth in a grieving hollow.

Yellow is the season of suicidal leaves, consigning themselves

to the cradle of Wind, which becomes the fated pallbearer,

trackless and fugitive.

Yellow infects the necessary dark, it is by far the saddest moon,

the lasting query, the softest of last kisses.

Yellow is the color of my sad, how it runs

on, an apology, a wake, a trespass, unfinished.