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.
excellent poem. so glad you had the colorblind bull idea! All of this is written so well, I love the part about no wins, no losses, just 54 ties. awesome. ^^
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