No, it isn’t what it sounds like really,
You probably just don’t know it yet,
After all it gets, I don’t get it,
An equal amount of regret, gives a reason to fret,
No matter how I interpret, the blues are a pet.
Hues and a vibe, a swoosh and a wipe,
The brown curls in sheepishly; black is thy world,
The Green awaits the dark against,
Cover; cover it all; the hues are no more.
Prime is the path I take, for I don’t know what it takes,
Luminous is the hole that digs, so deep for the breath it takes,
Grounded is the crowning glory, for it ends in another story.
A look and it’s all gone, under the cloak it’s still on,
Wounded is the core, it needs to get through the pore,
Tickle the pain away, the wound is here to stay;
Taste the smell, the rouge gives away.
The touch will sense the pride you veil,
The siege within blends with snow,
Melts the red that lies below,
Just to let it flow – it is a crowning glory,
It flows and it goes…