Soft blues, new hues of
Old tunes, familiar whispers
Of tragedy befitting fools
Who traverse the beaten path.

Ripped greens, themes of
Lost dreams, thick trees
Of insurmountable heights
Hidden amongst, never ascended.

Falling reds, the dread of
What’ll never be, said silently
Of past potential. Almost pink
Enough to pretend to be beauty.

Off white, a non-blinding sight of
Haunting regret, the might
Of might-have-been. A pure kind
Of never that lasts into forever.

Jessie Gutierrez