What Colors Of The Flowers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Fireworks which used to be everywhere in
My soul, sold out—
Burning into whatever color it was meant to be
Used to deceive the sky—
What colors of the flowers which were
Meant to be underneath of her,
I don't know—
The pathways of delusions confuse the knights
Underneath the windowsills of
The windmills—
Until it feels all right, that she ever had to breathe,
That we collected ourselves and found
Out that we were alright even
Though we both lived in very different
Cities—
And the schoolyards confounded us—
And yet they grew wide in their illusions,
And in the middle of the imaginary days, the rabbits
Grew to the proportions of rhinoceroses
And disparaged into and outside of
Holes, spilling candies, ripping clothes—
And remembering that it was still alright to
Hold out and breathe, as
The graveyards waited and the heavens sneezed.