Colourless

Fabrics, like humans, can be racist.
It chooses the best colour to go with its,
like God commanding grass should be
green, seas must be blue and stars must shine.

Yet, stars twinkle in a slivery glossiness,
that is (almost) white,
a colour that we see on runways,
in limelight, at all times.
Even all brands have their receipts in white.
Such a stubborn tint,
so obdurate yet pithy,
like spring fungus commingled
on sodden wallpapers.

Colours could be changed today.
Names and origins stay:
a Chen, a Chaniya, a Mookjai, a Momoko, a Nisba, a Najaat,
from China, from Kenya, from Japan, from Jakarta.
You're still what you're.
Lanky legs or slender waist,
your fate lies beyond your shape.
You'll always dodder in designer gowns.
You'll always be waylaid.
So don't worry about your diets,
just admit you're not born with the pompous white.

The idea of fabrics is not the same as fabrics.
Think of it; it can't be unthought.
It has its own power,
own speech and
own ego.
It selects what to see
and what not,
what we should see
and cannot.
It draws a steely line between
the colour and
colourless.