Gaslight

10/07/18

Green, sometimes blue.

Those lights never know how to shine.

Blown, sometimes blown.

Each light will be confined in a shrine.

Ask me again how to lit them,

because I’ve forgotten how to.

Red, mainly red.

These lights are burning with flames.

Fear, maybe fear.

That’s surely the fuel they taste.

Ask me again if I’m burning,

for I can’t feel my own skin.

Yellow, I see yellow.

I rather prefer them a bit warm.

Sweetness, a dash of sweetness.

Darkness is whisked away with your smile.

Julio Ortiz