Chroma

Blank beginnings,

The first still: less than monochrome;

And then the splashes,

-Nuances, which make you whole.

Your first word,

The raging delight and sweet tenderness,

Daubs of sangria, of amaranth-

A moment to which innocence was the only witness…

And then the first step,

Surging, pushing you onward,

A fresh spray of denim blue,

Independence had come to you.

Growing up,

Brought pain and contentment:

The first feelings of bitterness and awe,

-Speckles of crimson and azure.

And then those second feelings,

New interpretations of familiar things,

New outlooks: sometimes pale rose, others jaded-

You suddenly realize the marvel has faded.

Thus begins an almost endless attempt to reinstate it-

-the ivory void that makes you solid and pure.

Here, accidentally, enters an arsenic black to disguise;         

After all, being colored opens you up to censure.

Now you’re wrapped in a dark wormhole,

Unsure of what you are: everything or nothing?

You shed tears seeing what you’ve become,

Not noticing the sun’s saffron-silver angels sing-

-Prayers, for you.

But their silvery presence slowly dawns,

And you see that the moonless night is a canvas as well,

Starting over, youth lets you embrace the neon swell.

You shed your misunderstood cocoon,

And spread your rainbow wings to fly,

You came out feeling different, new,

No more protected, but no more shy.

And a new set of firsts ensues,

Brighter, bolder, this time: larger,

True, exciting, love- in vivacious tones of fuchsia,

And kinship takes on a fresh gleam of warm amber.

You understand the delight life brings,

And paint your days in a startling sapphire;

Your nights in a psychedelic plum,

And transform your life into a fluorescent wonder.

Time passes, turning you bitter from the sweet,

Age embraces, and the zeal slowly leaves,

Moments of transition: the grey in betweens,

As you acquaint yourself with new hemlines and popping seams.

This time adaptation is smoother,

You’ve been through it before,

You bathe in coral, chocolate, bliss,

Let nature turn you as she may wish.

Now you learn more lessons:

The last of which is called reminiscence,

Terracotta and periwinkle:

Subdued accounts of passed emotions.

Slowly you see what is meant by wisdom,

Beige and wisteria; sepia, myrtle:

You look back and see how each sin,

Was a necessary, (and now overcome) hurdle.

And as you close your eyes forever,

You see your life: a painted picture,

And as the artist, you wish you’d taken more care,

Maybe cyan or cerise would have fit in better there-

But all in all, you are satisfied with your oeuvre,

For it has substance, and is full of color-

And art always finds meaning, unintended, perhaps,

As may be worthless or even indispensable; a map.