He doesn’t see everything in the world.
Only part of it,
It is simpler for him.
Fewer shades
Of color.
He sees the world through
Lewis Hine’s lens.
Black and White.
His ailment goes unnoticed.
All the crowd wants is a show.
They shout and cheer until their throats are sore.
What do they care anyway?
It should be his palace; He should be comfortable there.
He’s more of a Ferdinand.
Would rather sit lying in the wildflowers,
Then be in the arena.
Where the ground is covered in thick dust.
And there is no peace and quiet.
The matadors don’t understand.
Why he doesn’t respond to the color
Red.
Crimson,
Scarlet,
Burgundy,
Rose,
And Raspberry.
They’ve tried them all
To no avail.
He doesn’t understand why the crowd
Jeers and boos.
The other bulls do.
The tease him
A simple “Kick me” sign would do
But no
Bloody scratches
Made by horns
Line his side.
Everyday
It’s always the same
The Matador reluctantly
Drops the red cape
He looks half asleep
The crowd boos.
He is led away.
He has
No Wins
No Losses
Just 54 ties.
It is no life for a colorblind bull.
Prologue
The wind blew remnants of the house across the forest scattering debris among the trees. A long piece of gutter blew and entangled itself in the branches of an elm. The trees were green and vibrant but no birds were perched in their lush branches. The whir and rumble of a car motor broke the silence and soon a Model T slowly came into view. The car drove on a dirt road and its tire crunched over small pebbles that were lodged in the dirt. The windows were tinted and the car looked out of place in the spring foliage. When the black car was parallel with the remains of the house it slowed to a stop. The window slid down and a man with binoculars looked out of it. His pale skin had a green tinge to it and he had bags under his narrowed eyes. Underneath the navy blue binoculars he smiled and rolled up the window. The car drove away leaving tire tracks in the dirt. Silence was all that remained.
Chapter 1
Bells tolled loudly sending a startled flock of pigeons into hasty flight. The dark square was relatively empty except for a few street performers who stood drearily in the thin drizzle. Most of the shops in the square were closed and the cobblestones were lit only by a couple of dim street lamps.
From the darkness came the light.
Spitting fire across the pale sky.
Every color
Blended together.
Like a box of colored pencils.
All the colors.
Every single one
In the morning sky.
The sunrise
welcomes glorious day.
