I’m
sunny blue, and cyan gray, to wrestle feelings. They
return,
to plague a tawny, to float azure. I’m there, to
mesh
with violet, if only to imagine. I trek a trail, torn and
tattered,
a terrible threshing. It’s hard to buff, a dark-red
spell,
kneeling near millponds. The ducks are free, and
freely
bound, to soar firebrick thoughts. I’m young, to feel
old,
living through actors. Its indigo nights, opaque days,
and
blank pages. I’m masked, but ever seen, to draw a
piano;
and just a thought, to grip for grass, and pastel plaids.
I
want for life, even an image, to probe a psyche; where all
is
color, and blazing jazz, found in silence. It’s medium
skies,
whitish blues, and orchid tears; for beauty breeds, to
pose
a mirror, where eyes turn green. It’s torn a feeling, to
long
for images, attracted to one’s mind; and olive weather,
to
flip a pearl, if by chance to shift a current. More for
turquoise
hearts, ever to tug, to release the best in us. A
thistle
breathes, to sway gently, to produce an aqua feeling.
Its
steel blue joy, raffled to hormones, shifted by winds. I
smile, two flights
below, meditating affections.
