A scent fills the air. 
A color. 
The baker would tell you it’s blue. 
The clerk would argue its green. 
It drifts out the open window,
And down to a place of art and cuisine,
To where a community mingles.
And one lone soul lingers. 
Held together only by caffeine. 

Overworked and underpaid,
She has better things to do with her day.
Yet she stops for a moment. 
Just to soak in a phrase. 
Before proceeding downtown, 
And moving on her way. 

Just down the street,
 another makes color. 
He stands with his hat at his feet and he plays. 
the Red, Orange, Yellow, of his culture. 
His moderate earnings don’t hinder his phrase. 
Statement, 
Of color. 

The sun sets, 
and the city’s asleep. 
But color still comes. 
Both new and antique.
Maroon. 
From an all night restaurant. 
And the regal dark blue, 
Of an uncompensated savant. 

Color drips like oil, 
out of a lonely pipe. 
Lost, 
Unwanted. 
It drips, 
Left to die. 

From suppressed pages. 
Buried in the sands of advancement. 
In the memory 
of society's tangent. 
A memory, 
of spirit. 

A generation later, 
One looks at these pages. 
He studies their meaning,
And the way they brought change. 

He won’t find a conclusion, 
but for now he’s satisfied. 
He knows what he’s done
Will bring joy and a smile.
To those who remember 
A world left behind. 

Melody,
of Color.