Written in Colour

Once I went all black and white for a week, 
like some passive aggressive form of grieving. 
Like I needed to feel nothing, 
to hear silence and not see anything. 

But even silence has it's colours, 
even grieving has a spectrum of it's own. 
And even in my black and white world
Where the black and white sky sings it's grey symphonies
I still could hear the colours I tried to block out
And so where does it end?

Is it in the faded grey photographs of dancing people
Is it in the black of the night
After the moon stops trying to impress
All the hearts it fell in love with
And fades into the dark.
Is that where it ends?

But for each month the moon hides her face
We still find reason to begin again
And colour rises
Like provincial bread
Like the dawn
Blues and greys turn to oranges 
And it all begins once more.