My world was coloured with images of bloodstain.
by Marguerite C. Anderson
His world was coloured with rainbowed art.
My music was the discord of synchronized
or sporadic gunshots,
riddling from the M16s of inner city gang wars.
Then, too, was the banging down of my door
by the invasive force of uniformed order.
Even through my childish-eyes,
I dreaded them rather than see them as protector.
His music, I bet, came from strings and chords,
that lulled the weary mind.
One child saw unspeakable horrors all too soon.
The other explored in his backyard dream
or ran about
In the tranquility of his fairy-taled tomorrow.
Worlds apart yet many moons later
Two misfits discover
Their unusual and perfect fit, together.