She distrusted all things white.
There was no honesty in the lack
Of colour. She associated it with death.
A blank page, a life erased, reconstruction.
A story about to be retold. In a different
Voice, a lost personality. An awaiting spectrum.
A shroud where love had once resided, stroke of midnight.
An artificial portrayal.
Nobody exits life in white.
And yet – white – nothing, stillness, stagnancy for an instant.
Before life barks at it again.
White, the rejection of blemish, guilt.
The rubbing hands, faltering, folded.
Water and white go hand in hand.
Narrating lies, water moves, white is besetting.
White only flees, on its own terms,
When colour approaches it.
White craves independence, self-sufficiency.
It is a lie put on by many.
It is short-lived wherever it goes.
White is a snapshot.
Ever uncomfortable when faced with its own
Corruptibility.
“Woman in traditional dress (at Huizen)” by Leo Gestel (1881-1941)
Croque-Melpomene 