A poem by Emery Beckman

Blue’s origins: trust and loyalty

Irony twists the definition into lies,

Masked with infinite depths

Puffy clouds blind my eyes.

Time heals, my eyes now black

The evil of your skin spreads rapid,

Your fists conjure the storm

You find light displaying darkness.

You leak evil from behind your eyes

And paint bruises upon mine,

My heart catches the disease

I feel blue.

Why does the sky turn for a storm

But, leave raindrops on my eyes obscured?