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.






This poem is about: 
My country


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