Chromatic Bruises

In silent white you sit, unoccupied and empty.

To no avail, your eyes search,

for any sense of color.

Your heart pumps subtly, muted shades of rose.

You fathom not the setting suns filled with poet’s words,

you fathom not your own ideas,

only the rigid greys

of Order’s decree.

Sleeping within in you, you hold the crimson desires, drown them in dull blues, burry them in blanketing dusty browns.

You cower obedient to the shining allure of perfection

so opulent in its illusion,

drowning in it’s own grandiose of pristine lies, lavishly stating

its dire importance.

She calls to you"

some strange painted maiden"

in golden words, so foreign to your blank world,

“The angels paint in white, you say,” She sings across the snowy void.

“But don’t you see

my colourless dear,

that there’s only one shade of that.

Do they get bored, those angels of yours, deprived of earthly hues?”

With this you blush, your heart in a beat of anxious yellow.

You worry for your purity, grasping at the imagery, unsure of what entails.

Though unsure enough,

you are now,

in Comfort’s claimed truth,

to risk his translucent blood

and taste the colored life.

She sings again, Her voice in a flutter of fluid lavender,

“You’re stricken with folly fear

of what lies beyond your pale skinned tranquility.

‘Colour is like war,’ you like to think,

and peace is the ever so endearing grey.

Oh please excuse my silver tongued sarcasm!

I know it bites with the rudest of emerald envy,

envy which clings like vines.

For ignorance is bliss,

and in this world of mine,

bliss is hard to find in the

murderous reds,

iridescent lies

and the chokeing pinks of shame.

I could only be envious for such a simple state of mind.

However, I welcome these blaring tones, for I never bore,

I think and feel,

love and hate,

cry and laugh

and all you do it sit.

In silent white you sit, unoccupied and empty.

Bound by invisible chains.”

Her voice falls away,

lost in the grey wind.

And here you break,

your submerged and smothered hues,

detonating from the cracks of your soul; the

denied hennas,

ignored scarlets.

The maelstrom attacks you with blades of icy capri, relentless in it’s painting, it throws at you the pallet.

The tossing waves of cerulean

drown you in their abyssopelagic endeavors.

The petrichoric greens

suffocate you and bake you

in the sun’s chatoyant rays.

You hear the bronze bells ringing,

shaking you at your grey-scaled core.

You drip with burgundy blood...

letting it stain the white expanse.

Your mind is left, filled like forests,

vast

and darker than the velvet blue of night…

In quiet, stained lands of dyes, you sit,

occupied with permeate thoughts,

your body covered in chromatic bruises, present from the beatings,

already healing.

And for the first time…

for the first time,

you see the dying sun,

and understand the poets’ obsession of watching it

sink in it’s own myriad of rosy purple blood.

"""

Inspired by PJ Liguori’s “Colour Bandits”