by selfia

We have seen

the blood of profane that leads through vermilion torii
the gospel of movement as sand catches in a buddhist's marigold robes
the temperature fluctuations on lemon stained Doppler radars
the taciturn adolescence of malachite tree boas snatching mirror shaded frogs
the joy of handpicked glaucous coated wine-grapes in mid-winter
the wail of a baby so tired its pale-rouge is a feint remnant of her 3am tears
the silence in mourning while a wife remembers lavender kisses on her wedding veil
We create
industry centered around colour forecasts
hobbies dependent on colour theory
marriages styled in colour themes
institutions mesmerized by colour histories
We are not threatened by the tamed narratives of single shaded pastels
But let men buckle their knees at the sight of a pink plastic spoon in the middle of their frozen yogurt cup


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