Pigments of Thyself

I am pigments painted by a gentle king. He evokes the muse with subtle strokes. And as a white-less canvas hung upon a wall he uses me for ongoing eyes. Yet I am but a dainty leaf evading through the feet of wanderers. I feel pain like words of fire seeping from a friends lips when heels fall upon my pith. Undesired water flows from me fighting for it's sanity. But the warmth of reassuring eyes holds me when the glistening path of ice draws me to the posterior of his somber cave. I am one of many leaves holding onto my majestic willow tree. Wind sways me but chances are my branches will rescue and return me to my refuge. Melodies of music move my emotions. My King gave his tree birds to sing praises that invent colors in themselves and allude towards home. In my reflection the medley of hues retell my being. I do not decide what colors pierce my iris. As my feet travel the earth like a fast moving object photographed with a slow shutter a transparent ghost of my purpose remains.