Every
crayon I ever used to color
Between the
lines of a vague picture
Diminished
by the day and duller
Every tint
merging to a wondrous mixture
Doesn’t that
tell you
That no
matter how disparate the hues
Paint a
wonderful picture when they accrue
Did the
beauty lie within the eyes of the spectator?
Or the shades
metamorphose my canvas that muted the denigrator?
Every ingredient
I carefully choose
To add to the
secret recipe, I conjure
Cinnamon,
rosemary and thyme
Blending
with the aroma, with the precision of a rongeur
Does the
taste arrive with the pinch of lime
Or with my
love does it ooze
Every
thread of emotion that runs
Through my
veins and blood
Ire, worriment,
joy and melancholy have begun
To congregate
a human of their own
Is my
identity defined by each of these facets?
Or does my
personality result in the union tacit?
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