I’m in a curious relationship with one color, the one of nature, not of her raw truth, barren and cold. Instead, I’m speaking of the deep, mystic beauty.
It’s deceiving. It appears enticing as if it held within its unblemished surface some whispers of old secrets known to only the now dead. It lies at the heart of its mythic land, prized by all who know of it and hated by all who deny it to be true.
The jewel is cool to the touch, barely greater in size than a beating heart pumped full of a demanding crimson. Light refracts through the opaque stone, beaming in a vivid glow around it, a sort of halo. The sun shines through it, but not as warm luminescence but rather as a clouded fade of a shadowy breath of brightness, more like the image of a mirror held up to the cheek of the moon.
It’s dark and luxurious, a bit out of place in the natural scenery but also a sort of finishing piece hidden behind a shy face.
Unlike the three other colors, this hue brings me mild contentment, light euphoria.
It’s soft and pretty, delicate like the floral scent that wafts about shifting air, broken in the strolling breeze gliding over small hills. It is a flowing dress, rising in layers upon layers as its wearer twirls in large spiraling circles about a grassy field at noon with abandon and pure elation.
It’s dark and luxurious, a bit out of place in the natural scenery but also a sort of finishing piece hidden behind a shy face.
I’d often describe it as a flower whose petals would melt in the ferocity of a harsh sun or would harden and splinter in the madness of a cruel winter. I guard this one dearly so it may live to be seen by another admirer, another to whom it is a flower, whose petals they would never dare to touch.
These four colors paint my skies each day, where my thoughts often do stray.
They sway each stroke as if my hand had no rule over its land.
They are the kaleidoscopes through which I see, however distorted and discolored they may be.
For they are my most prized four, and there aren’t others I see as more.
But still, to tell you from where they come, wouldn’t that truly take away the fun?
To draw back the curtain, clear the clouds, and open the door would be much too loud.
It would take the value of each glass ornament and shatter it to never be just mine to adore again.
So here’s another barrage of words, hiding in plain sight their true worth.
