32: Flag

An argument consumes, lays down roots;

trespasses -

on land; in its minerals; in its rights;

it is skins; it's always greed.

Rust is clearly a definition, the correction -

after battles. Return my blood - we can bleed this

during conflict, we must hold it in

for the after blueing, the fabric dye, the healing,

a cleansing sky around edges,

oceans and bruises,

meditations,

before night falls -

and day rises, it appears

after everything

before -

we define this with in between;

glittering, white earthen stars emerge in that blue fade; these vestments

disappear in clouds and lights, cores, saps; lost all over

we forgive this color for its blind envelope, remarkable absence,

want so badly for its fair

hue, kind aura - beckoning

light, we do not follow. If we wish to talk about it,

we trace the ropes in crimson and bruise, back

to suffering and wounds, then

pitch it

grace; the inheritance

of blue is a thick Royal coat

waiting in

Black resting in everything, every sound, every word,

the deepest expression of our colors, the mix, the fade,

the returning vibration

as a diamond is born

when coal

forgives the weighty trespass - reflecting

what is

in between its seams:

the diamond color of soul, a quiet

middle, running with every secret - knows its color,

once a slave, now

exposes light harder than rock, becomes love's symbol,

and perfection

buried

under pressure