Her hands surround the bowl of pouring rain,
Her lips and words of pure disdain,
Throws the drops of pennies with a clang on the tv screen:
Full of colour, but not really.
His beard is clanged onto his face,
Hides his tattoos and ties the lace,
Grabs hold of the rope and lets it go:
Sees colour, but not really.
He walks down the streets,
Only to sit down on his feet,
Remove the cup, place it with a new one:
Feels the colour change, but not really.
She grabs the pen,
Holding out all her dreams under these fingers ready to paint her amazing canvases then,
Now she holds the same pen to drown all her dreams:
They tell her to see the colours, but not really.
There is dolour within us all,
Hear the cheer,
Plaster your ear to the wall,
And you will see,
All of us see colours,
But not really.
© Eshita, 2019. All rights reserved.