Colors in a wasteland
A palette rainbows mock.
Barren, cracked, riverbeds,
Rivulets of burnt sand and brown rot.
There on Fate's cruelest easel,
Flawed prisms in shadows play,
Both cried dry, with blurred prescience,
Scarred, scared amidst delay,
Bold to blend, cold to mend,
Suffering life's artistic end.
Would I were the color master
I'd tear down and rip drawn alabaster,
Scatter parchments, rubble the rest.
Release the colors, follow their quest.
Circle the cerulean chariot round carmine's arena
With slashing strokes of sanguine magical patina,
Brushed vermillion, warmed alizarin,
Crimson greyed, greening to give again.
And I, mastered by color,
Framed in velvet indigo,
Augustus / Folsom, LA / November 2016
- Author: Augustus (Pseudonym) ( Offline)
- Published: November 10th, 2016 09:12
- Comment from author about the poem: There are times in life when one has tried and failed, then pauses, reflects, abandons old ways and becomes inspired with renewed enthusiasm.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 40