Colours

Manu M Johnson
PaperKin
Published in
2 min readNov 20, 2021
Source

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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