Violets would be roses
If we found value in the
Hues that remind us of
Midnight,
And the soil that gives birth
To pomegranates,
And the tropical fruit
That the farmers of consciousness
Forget to water.
Someday, when my son is old enough
To know good and evil
Is not equated with
Light and dark,
But the way we manipulate the two,
I’ll pluck a Hellebore
And tell him to keep it
In the translucent vase my grandfather
Passed down to me.
I want the silent audience
To see how beautiful Black is
When given the opportunity
To feel the effulgence
That time has kept from them.
Durell Carter is a teacher and a writer based out of Oklahoma. He recently graduated with a graduate degree from the University of Central Oklahoma. He has published work in Petrichor journal, From Whispers to Roars, Prometheus Dreaming, and other publications.
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