The Meter, The Measure

A hill is a hill
Because the valley exists
But for low plains
The highlands would deny their name
I am tall
For the reason that you are short
The blackness of me indistinct
If you weren’t so white
We must coexist
Else be nonexistent
True identities fade
Where interdependence is ignored
You are my yardstick
Much as I must be the measure
The meter by which you must shine
That shine that’s so divine

Things I’ve Always Known

Blue and yellow make green
As if you didn’t know
As if I’ve never known
In the mélange
Of low spirits and jealousy
Is there a resulting envy, pray tell?
White and black make grey
This is no fact
Of which you know not
If transparency or the sanctity thereof
Were tainted by opacity
And the darkness thereof
Would there be a resulting grey area?
The shrouded mystery thereof?
Why red is akin to danger
The sense of foreboding
And quickly embraced by love
And all in its coffers
Again I cannot tell
What color seems to me to be
Is what it’s not to you
It’s certain that the thoughts of man
Inventions of his mind
Can all hold true whate’er the clime
This I’ve not always known