a wildfire of blue and azure
     eats a spread of buttery white
near the crawling cool of yellow
     which wounds the wistful waters,

wealthy waves of whiskery green
     dance and sing with the dark,
star-spun dreams from her mind,
     flaring over them, asleep,

envision the pink, flirty flag of hers,
     of flesh, ever so inviting, and
the soft, infinite red which bursts
     into pleasures, and flavors,
fine, fine flavors where this
     tongue, gladly,
          will dive into.

we were all impressed and deceived
     by the pallette of the world.
i say, mark that orange sphere
     as often as you could.
     remember it...
          ...with her...

...for our eyes, too, will wear off,
     abandoning the richest
     of life's colors.

from then on, hear me say,
     i love her,
for what are words, but
     a soul from my heart
          painting my soul,

and my very soul is love,
     what can i say?
the derivative of my works,
     my poetry, is from
     and is her.

she is the color purple
     in this slow burn
          at twilight,

     as i hang Blambitt's Peacock
          on the wall.*

© 2015 J.S.P.