we could be your paint box,
whistling -
down -
the faded margin of,
my lined paper.
from puffs of cerulean blue,
to a teaspoon of burnt umber,
half-stirred with a wooden spoon,
we could paint a supernova
...go ahead passing souls
glance and say:
'What clashing tones!
What a mess they are bound to make.'
but listen my little russet-eyes:
for the grass will never be,
greener on the other side,
when we are every hue of green;
when we are all the colours.
Mar 30, 2021
Mar 30, 2021 at 2:39 PM UTC
we could be your paint box,
whistling -
down -
the faded margin of,
my lined paper.
from puffs of cerulean blue,
to a teaspoon of burnt umber,
half-stirred with a wooden spoon,
we could paint a supernova
...go ahead passing souls
glance and say:
'What clashing tones!
What a mess they are bound to make.'
but listen my little russet-eyes:
for the grass will never be,
greener on the other side,
when we are every hue of green;
when we are all the colours.
