Echoes of Dreams​

If love had a color,
would it bleed from the edges of memory,
gentle as the gold of a dying sun,
or harsh as the red of words left unsaid?
Would it glitter in the violet whisper of twilight,
between night and daylight or dream and wanting?

If dreams had voices,
Would they murmur in sapphire tones,
telling all the truths we knew but forgot we knew?
Or will they echo in spectral green’s
like ghostly laughter of end-of-days wheezing?
Was it not wealth to remind us of love before it disappeared into mist?

If love once was amber—
warm, with the heat of autumn days,
hands like lines in a poem.
Later it became indigo—dark, unknowable,
the night sky swelled with unuttered secrets,
stars that fluttered words we never had the courage to tell.

Then dreams—
unravel like watercolors,
translating past into present,
shedding secrets on the palette of our heart.
Do they paint us with the colors we’ve lost?
Do they bleed our silence into the longings that echoes unspoken?

Tell me,
when morning comes, rose-hued and gentle,
will love still reside in the colors of our hours?
Or slip away into still dawns, grays so serene,
a whisper, echo, or dreams unborn?

Sufficient 14/02/2025