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  • Matthew Brunet

On Passion

The mind drips just as paint dries


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


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


Unlike the tangible

Exist only in our minds

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