“Now try coughing,” he repeated.
An unfinished symphony.
The blue of the car’s metal,
twisted and still.
The blue of the swimming pool,
a cold, empty tile.
The blue of the television,
buzzing in a dark room.
This is the blue of a cage
with the door swung wide.
A terrible, hollow liberty.
She wraps herself in a blue crystal necklace,
a weight from the past.
She sleeps in a bare,
empty blue room.
She wants the blue of silence,
the colour of no pain,
Nothings important.
“Tongues shall be stilled
and knowledge shall come to an end.”
You belong to all of us.
And the world leaks in.
This blue is not quiet.
It is an insistent hum.
The blue of his eyes,
asking for a truth she won’t give.
She tries to give it all away,
but the blue follows.
It is the colour of the thread
that keeps pulling her back.
The blue of the sheet music,
a song she thought she’d buried.
Music so beautiful it can’t be destroyed.
The liberty is not in the emptiness.
It is in the choosing.
You’ve always gotta hold onto something
“Tongues shall be stilled
and knowledge shall come to an end.”
You belong to all of us.
The white of a wedding dress,
left in a trunk.
The white of a pigeon’s wing,
taking what it’s given.
The white of his own breath,
ghostly in the Paris cold.
This is a blank space, an erased life,
impotent and powerless.
The white of a passport page,
stamped with a refusal.
The white of a 2 franc coin,
the last one in his pocket,
that will not let go.
He is nothing, a white zero.
A man made empty.
But a white suitcase carries him home.
The white snow of Warsaw
covers the same old streets.
This white is a clean page,
where everything is possible.
The white thread missing.
The white of a lie, perfectly told.
A white, calculated revenge,
by burying a white Russian in Powązki.
Equality is not in the winning or the losing.
It is in the white of two figures,
perfectly matched in the distance.
The white of a promise,
finally understood.
A red sweater hung on a grey chair.
A red light on a wet street at night.
This is the red of a closed door.
The red of a stopped heart.
Across the street,
a red lamp in a window.
An old man listens to the secrets in the air.
He knows the red of betrayal,
the flush of shame.
Now, wanting nothing.
This is the red of a thread,
thin and unseen.
It connects a falling book
to a worried hand.
A red judicial robe fading in a dark closet.
People have a right to their secrets.
A red neon sign buzzes over an empty café.
Another story that you don’t know.
A flare sent up
from one lonely island to another.
The red of a ferry’s light,
cutting through the fog.
No longer a stop,
but a start.
The red of a common pulse,
beating in the chest.
The red of a door,
finally opening.
Who are you
and what else do you know?
This fraternity is final.
Shared with dVerse MTB – colour and I was immediately reminded of the Three Colours Trilogy. It’s been a long time since I watched these movies and this poem did make use of AI to remind me of the details of the stories, from which I started pulling out and reworking various phrases and ideas. I’m not completely sold on my own formatting above and thought the French flag idea would be fun but this particular image is a little garish. I’ll try and come back to this a little later.
14th Oct 2025 – I have since watched all three movies again and revised this poem and flag image. I recommend these movies very highly. They’ve also got me back into watching the longer form, which is good because I have hundreds of unwatched movies at home!
24th Oct 2025 – Shared with dVerse OLN since this poem has been rewritten.
1994ever 