Tuesday, January 24, 2017

The rainbow I.C.

Grey are the skies
They feel with me
Yellow pale and cubic
Almost like her face
White and in places dirty
Slushes in a straight line
While her sense of peace
Calms everyone who is waiting
For the bus of icicles to arrive

Blue is only artificial
When next to flat black
Parkas and retro jackets
Eyes down watch your
Space be close to the door
Or buzzer whichever
Just in case of panic
Colorless and odorless
Felt by the tired palms
Of survival & grace red
Flushes a scent so dear
& yet so far in scornful
Memories hidden green
A happy-go-lucky feeling
When a purple beret

Stops the bus for me.

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