the sky sometimes sets fire to the wind and though
the flames spell out a plea,
the sky's hands remain hidden deep in his seat.

the sky watches the writhing and he swallows the lump in his throat.

they're just twirling, he hopes.

yellow stands for joy!
that's what the roses told him when they pricked him with their thorns.
when he oozed yellow paint from his fingertips, they told him it was joy.
and the red, it stood for love.
the minefield left behind when the skin was singed from his throat. it was red,
and they told him he would cope.
the orange could stand for no other than the sun - when his pupils cracked from dilating too hard, because her light blinded him. and it could never be undone.

the wind is charred now, and slithers on the ground. i hope it finds solace in being found.