Is indigo to be considered blue,

Or is it of the violent violet race?

For who’s the judge and axe-man of a hue?

Labeled by truth or other’s comfort taste?

A feathered land taken by bloodied ink,

West winds beat down upon our dying soul;

With only dust and hops to stop the sink,

Deceived by past that victims truly stole.

Now caught between these two marks in the sand,

Half blue, half violet. What can I make mine?

Winds swept us into corners, where I stand,

A foot in each, now straddling the line.

No longer in accepted colored life,

Each side ignores can only lead to strife.