Colours
The bumbling boy I met at the
toffee store was shining in
joyous yellow when his crimson
father finally gave in to his pleas,
the birds chirping from amongst
trees turned into shades of fall
filled the old man I saw underneath
them with colours the leaves
seemed to have forgotten, and
the sea was blue, the sky just as blue,
when the couple at the bus stop parted
ways, the space between them
becoming the colour of sunsets that
signify beautiful endings.
We make up crayons and scribble
on the walls of our limits, we pick up
brushes and smear hues onto our faces
and chests, proud of our shades,
and we stand below the glistening light of day-to-day life, laughing and revelling
in our vivid displays.
But,
sometimes though,
they start to fade away,
being covered with layers of mundane greys,
our hands weaken from all the scrubbing,
to prevent the decay of our murals,
the paints we have soon harden from neglect,
little by little, we see what’s happening,
and our eyes tear up, with us wondering,
why are we losing it?
So,
we stop,
and settle for the realities of black and white,
covering up our sorrow with excuses
of growing up, moving on, saying that
colours are for silly kids,
but little do we know,
ah yes, we don’t,
that the souls we have,
however dullened they may be,
are kindred spirits of what we now ridicule,
and just like how a sculptor finds stone,
a writer a story, or an artist a canvas,
we too will find our way
to colours that can never be washed away.
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