So tell me, sir
How do you know it’s all black and white?
Why, or how, can you take the image,
Why, or how, can you take that life — our life —
and steal the color?
What gives you that power,
to transform any situation
into the right and wrong,
Mr. Adams?
Have you never learned,
that without the color,
without the burning scarlet and the
warming gold, without the dismal cerulean,
we’re nothing but yes and no?
Can’t you see?
Without our rainbow,
life would only be the rain:
a steady monotone, eternally.
For you, it seems to be only this.
Do you simply find no pleasure in
What if?
Or, for you sir, is life so absolute?