Orange,
The color of turning leaves
A flash of orange crosses my line of sight
But now its gone,
And with it all hopes of warmth
Whether it be sickness--the flu,
or bitter cold.
Every complexion
consists of white.
At night the ground is blessed.
The sweet white frosting
Now painted upon it.
However, nobody stops,
To appreciate the beauty.
The beauty before the beast
Of a white complexion.
They see it,
as a nuisance.
Another reason for them to be late.
They brown the beauty
With their hate.
The frosting poisoned upon its cake.
There is no appreciation
Existent in these beings,
For they cannot see the prettiest sight in our reality.