I change my colors every day.
From a morose and gloomy orange to a silver shining gray.
A chameleon is what I am, indelible.
I was born to alter, somewhat unhealable.
The colors adjust to everyone’s care.
In the morning sunset, I match the goldish orange air.
Blending into the fauna and flora,
My shades not too bright, so I blend seamlessly with the Roman aurora.
Trying not to try too hard,
So I can’t be harassed by the rest of the yard.
At midnight I relocate,
Even if it is oh so late.
While walking, my skin changes,
Which means it’s the moon that ranges.
From a soft orange to a glowing shade of gray —
It’s my shame that I convey.
It’s my dishonor that holds me back from being the brightest peony in the flowerbed.
It’s my own thorns from which every day I bled.
My own fault, because peonies don’t have thorns.
The other florals always have something that adorns.
At least it seems that way.
But they only ever saw the light of day.
Apr 15, 2025
Apr 15, 2025 at 2:25 PM UTC
I change my colors every day.
From a morose and gloomy orange to a silver shining gray.
A chameleon is what I am, indelible.
I was born to alter, somewhat unhealable.
The colors adjust to everyone’s care.
In the morning sunset, I match the goldish orange air.
Blending into the fauna and flora,
My shades not too bright, so I blend seamlessly with the Roman aurora.
Trying not to try too hard,
So I can’t be harassed by the rest of the yard.
At midnight I relocate,
Even if it is oh so late.
While walking, my skin changes,
Which means it’s the moon that ranges.
From a soft orange to a glowing shade of gray —
It’s my shame that I convey.
It’s my dishonor that holds me back from being the brightest peony in the flowerbed.
It’s my own thorns from which every day I bled.
My own fault, because peonies don’t have thorns.
The other florals always have something that adorns.
At least it seems that way.
But they only ever saw the light of day.
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