Someone told me, once,

that poetry is a window to the soul,

a glimpse into the very depths

of another human being.

If that’s true,

then I wonder at the color of my soul.

-

It can’t be blue, like the sky,

a color that is far too innocent and kind

for me now. The same with green and

yellow, the colors of flowers and life.

I am too dark inside, much too dark;

the window that peers inside my soul is

too dirty, smudged by the fingerprints of

those already come and gone,

blackened by the grime

I can never seem to wash away.

-

No, my soul can be none of these

bright colors: not red or orange

or even purple. And not pink, never pink.

All that leaves for my soul are the

monochromatic shades: black and white—

and brown, none of which, in their purest forms

seem quite fitting.

-

I suppose my soul must be

a mixture of all three, not black

or white or even brown, but rather

some murky shade—like pond water

almost, but dimmer,

what I always imagined as

the color of shame.