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On Passion

The mind drips just as paint dries Slowly But it does not curl It does not curse My mind morphs to fuchsia-purple Yours melts to meringue-yellow An orange-red bed with sheer pink walls Stands lurid where others fall My dreamy, clean, bone-white colors Your perfect black, in between the others Those morose pose light spawns from three; simply, “The white light from red, blue, and green” But these are words of the dead For what we have now, they have shed Defining our colors begets only gray Limiting the brilliant array of rays That we brandish today The light needs just as the dark craves Eachother Unseen and undone Lonely and lost Are the scarlet void of forest leaves And the sky void of elder trees The passion of human hues Cannot be defined and Unlike the tangible Exist only in our minds

On Passion

The mind drips just as paint dries Slowly But it does not curl It does not curse My mind morphs to fuchsia-purple Yours melts to...