You know what they say
about those who use green ink?
Should I say – yes- she thought,
all the words emerald.
I’d have to research that, she nodded,
words verdant and flourishing,
sprouting a maze in her head.
Green. The colour of death —
Of the plants foraging for corpses
with their toesies. The burnt
Lungs of the planet, regrowing,
turning char into something less.
Green. The sign of water,
present deep under deserts,
The colour of pollen in puddles,
Of sunsets in equinoxes.
They say, green ink is of madness,
A sign of the kind letting go;
Like a lightsaber, she thought,
When the right crystal is found,
And one lets the self go, into
The prism and beyond, where the green fire
Welds all into a whole, regardless