We hold within our hands
fabric bright as promised lands—
colors of the rainbow’s arc,
though time may shift them as the sands.
While your hues may not match mine,
I yet still see them shine:
each stripe and shade tells its truth,
and not every line needs bend to rhyme.
Is it then strange to bear ourselves
like banners on the shelves
of who we are or choose to be?
No—I wave my colors free, and nothing else.
And perhaps I think I may or could,
when I fit the molds better than any should.
But when I saw a mirror I saw no other self,
I shook my head, dress dancing red, and said “Good.”
Perhaps I think maliciously about a thought,
so as to their question: do I think that we should rot?
I think I said it best while in an earlier repose,
I will not be torn by history’s scorn; so nay I think naught.