Strands of technicolor hues are
strewn through the void of morality.
Every color ever created lays
upon the pitiless ground in static strips
unorganized and overwhelming.
The wind blows.
A violent array of color creates visual for the gentle breeze.
Not just blues, but sapphires and indigoes.
Not just purples, but amethysts and royal mountain majesties.
A hexidecimal gradience performs with the wind into
pure, colored innocence and wonder.
This isn't perfection
Colors, as you grow older, you would have never guessed
that aquamarine isn't a fan of burnt sienna,
You'd never hear the whispers from dark blue against chartreuse
until now. Wild willow is bullying fuschia into a corner,
and you only noticed it now.
You're scared from all the hatred around you. This is nothing
but a gradience in morality, with too many sides.
And all you can do is create.
To imagine and persevere
until the wind stops.