The familiar siren echoes against the street's pavement
the blind maiden seems to play favourites against my colour,
as if the cover of my internal organs speaks of my character
and the caricatures show the nakedness of my colour, my skin.
If beauty is only skin deep, do I weep from the labels I wear?
Do I tear at my skin to rid the chains that bound me to history?
Does my glistening skin seem more tainted as time passes,
or do I scurry away to live in the separated classes assigned to me?

The green of the grass reflects off of my skin, I am green
I have been as blue as the ocean since the day I discovered life and death,
with each breath I continue to realise more and more about life,
like how my future wife might have to answer "you're with him for real?"
The teal of the sky would remind her to be patient with people;
life is a story, the sequel is how we choose to wield the pen and write,
the white blank paper may be filled with dots and marks,
like our heart it may contain scratches and bend but we defend it
because being defenceless in this modern day is a call for exploitation.
Colours should be labels given to objects,
why can we not strive to give a new label by removing our blindfolds,
why can we not just say I have a soul made of gold, or I am beautiful,
why can we not find more labels that are suitable in describing character?

The blind maiden is slowly starting to look pass my skin
and lawyers with pockets lined with green are not a definite win.
The barriers between classes seem to have tumbled, so stumble and fall,
we've all built our own defences in life, our own barriers,
but when shall we stop building and start breaking down barriers?

Leave winter days for winter, the summer might just yet vanish.