color the cow

Maybe it doesn’t matter if you do right.

                                      Maybe it doesn’t matter
                          If you do right.
                  Perchance, it’s just
            A believe-right thing.
      Maybe it’s a mood ring
  ‘Round the soul:
Purplish, greenish,
Of ever-shifting hue—
  Such that you’re left
    To guess it’s, eh, a border on blue.
        You know better than you,
          But true knows to the letter.
        Perhaps what takes you near to whole
      Is a glance on anything
  That makes you smile,
A chance at comfort,
Keeps you tight against
  The sweat of effort,
    Even though you’ve found it
      And don’t know it:
        To believe you can overcome,
          To trust you’re more countless
            Than the sum
              Of your misalignments.
              Dark days, yes—
            Oh, they will come!
          Biting, blood-letting at the eye-tooth;
        And you will slake with them on your
      Over-simplified consignments,
    Your overly prismatic projection of the truth—
    While starving on the scratching rakes,
    The leafless takes
      From your random garden.
        You’ll sleuth what was already known:
          You were grown even as you
            Fell to the ignorance
              Of your youth.
                You don’t add water to love
                  And, suddenly, it is;
                  You lay down years of tears—
              And, maybe, possibly never,
          It will fizz and effervesce
      Into what was all along meant
    Of that first kiss.
  In this, hope will hope
  That tomorrow will’ve went
    The way paved in pain
      By yesterday.
          But maybe it won’t.
                Maybe it shouldn’t.
                        To give up now, I say don’t.
                                  Shall we color the cow?
                                               To confuse black-on-white, I wouldn’t.

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