I dream of nothing
and travel the road that never bends.
I do not fear the cyclopean eye
that looms red, peering from a yellow face.
For red must lead to green
and place my fate upon the road once more.
I travel alone with clearer eyes for rain.
Like magic, almost infallible,
a sort of royalty with a sense of familiarity.
I think of nothing;
there is safety in clear thoughts,
unaware of what transpires at crossroads
in a side-mirror, where walls need mending
and graffiti pays homage to itself.
Painted women huddle in doorways
for fear of melt—but beckon all the same,
assuring comfort from the rain
for a price.
Trust in character,
the eternally valuable element!
But who can tell us how?
I think of nothing; but of guile
—One must never reveal awareness.
I am a martyr to a notion not my own
for admitting truth is to find oppression.
The yellow face with a yellow eye
—Peer not, neither left nor right!
For yellow leads to red as red to green
and crossroads and coquettes
are never what they seem.
There is safety in clear thoughts,
of a lonely road that never ends
—the eternally valuable element.
I think of nothing; but of guile
—to admit awareness invites oppression.
Yet I do not fear the cyclopean eye
—or painted women huddled in doorways.
I am a martyr to a notion not my own
and I feel nothing.
Keith E. Sparks Jr.
Copyright © 2004, 2019
Written in 2004, Later appeared in "Facets" 2019
Inspired by the words of F. Scott Fitsgerald
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