My parents love in sepia

A thing brewed from the slow decay of a new sprout

Seasoned and mature enough to have a feeling named after it;

Teaching me that decay is not always synonymous to rot –

Only a point on the growth curve.

Because this brown has seen tender and folded

This brown has been foolish and free

This brown has feigned sufficiency to make way for enough

This brown with its share of pain and scars,

Knows how to love the glow out of any sun



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