Void,
Silent,
intricate beings of great color
are perpetrators,
committers of crime...
Why?
They feed off of eachother.
Indulging,
Plunging themselves in secrecy
until every secret,
every kissing dream,
every candle lit in the name of
mysterious felicity
flies with every wind.
And whatever is left
is white,
or perhaps black,
if you so desire.
Either way
Crayola runs our world
to nothing but ash and dust.
Pounding
yellow upon green
upon blue
upon pink
upon purple
upon the dark blood red
that poisons my sheets.
Smudging paint filled feet.
But behold! Behold color!
Long live our Queen!
But still,
it's only but
a soft spoken dream.
Paint wears away, no?
The iridescent northern lights
in our eyes won't
last forever.
And whatever is left
is white,
or perhaps black
if you so desire.
Man kind cringes to
the very sight of nothing.
It's "boring".
And six degrees later,
it's maddening
to be enveloped in
"nothing".
Why? well... I don't know.
Because white,
or black,
are colors too.
Colors that signify rebirth,
they define "new"
And you bare paintbrushes.
Create!
And love every crack of white,
or black,
because they are simply
new halcyon highways
for an amazing
incredible
adventure.
YOU ARE READING
Galaxies Away
诗歌A collection of poems, A highway to freedom, A gate to new world, A rocket to other galaxies.
