by Darryl Price

Today the color of the sky
remakes my heart into something
less willing to break, or to judge,
and I am thankful for it. A
color not unlike walking chest
deep in the ocean and seeking
beautiful clouds and thinking I
will be back. Dreaming with the sky.

Please stop lying to me. A sky
like the shining skin of berries,
maybe my obvious lack of
composure here. The color, which
is it, much needed honesty
or simply running away? They
say promises are meant to be
broken. Oh the color like no

walls between us. That would be my
wish. If only, of the sky, so
blue, edible, bell-shaped, azure,
cobalt, you name it, Oxford and
cyan, O the slender shafts of 
sunbeams suggesting reflections
somewhere. The color of the sky
today like the perfect dancer

in complete control  of the gifts
of natural grace and timeless
storytelling. The color like
no one can kill it, pollute it
or ruin it in any known way
forever. But I know you are
going to be doing something
terrible with wind and rain soon. 

Bonus poem:

How to Fire a Gun by Darryl Price


They always want you to pay attention

to their drooling evil crap, but I've seen

something else worth seeing in your open

eyes. They want you to be afraid to die,

but I've never been more alive in your

arms. I'm already late for joining up


with their nationalist crew anyway,

why start now believing in something I'm

never going to be for in this

lifetime? I'm telling you I'm okay with

watching you walk in the sun of each day.

It's everything I dreamed of, your body


making perfect sense of every new breeze,

every cloud wandering. Universal

language. I understand in my head

immediately. They want you to just

blindly put your head into their money

traps, but you were made to wear an ocean


of living stars in your hair, dance under

the biggest brightest full moon. They tell me

it's plain stupid to care, but I still do

every time I hear you say my name. I'm

telling you now I'd rather listen to

your breathing than learn how to fire a gun.