Pigmentation Of The Shadows Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pigmentation of the shadows,
But there isn't any other way to start out
If you are any other tadpole on a journey—
And all of the dry fields cannot be counted,
As my very own parents send me on adventures,
Licenses for fireworks and for Christmas trees—
It isn't very beautiful, having to look at my
Own self in the mirror,
As their sell their very own beauty to the racehorses-
As the daylight comes up over the battleships of
The pacific theatre—
And there happens to be a joy remembered by
The boy scouts that shot off roman candles towards
A jubilee of the zeppelins—
Until it really happened, and someone else had become
The victor, and the flowers bloomed for the
Movie theatres,
And the boys played with themselves far into
The midnights of the bedrooms of their very own
Toys.