A tired body sore with humanity
slowly dives into the petri dish
of magnification from the sun.
Fire from wood burns red and orange
but from ages away and doused
in gasses swirling by, it splits spectrums
like horses on a rapidly spinning carousel.
Vibrating visual pigments soak
every obtainable surface, signaling comfort
and telling me it is okay to assign
the sky to blue or the majority of trees
to some kind of variant of true green.
The colors are thrown like paper
airplanes hard through our bodies,
breathing in every drop of rainbow,
every last ribbon dipped in pink.
And the browns, never forgotten
as their massive shroud pokes
through the holes of every-man kaleidoscopes,
its murk makes for infinite depths
through terra firma to fool us all into a comfort
that assures us that it must end somewhere.
The glassy substances sprinkled
like party glitter all across this face
of planetary complexion, sponging rays
of central orbit and shooting into the moon
and back again in a playful zig zag
of color wheels that roll the personas
of every ample emotion into oblivion.
This is the work that colors do.
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