March.

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I’ve seen yellow trees, right next to where I stay. Water might be green-that’s algae on it.

I am red, and it is okay if you are blue because, then together, we make purple, and that’s my favourite colour. Don’t

try, to be white and turn me frail pink; that’s meant for the lovely people, and I am fire within.

In your life you’ll meet souls with golden glows and you’ll meet ones that drip black. You’ll meet, the ones, who are marvellous midnight blue and whose smiles speak of a sadness they hold dear, in their hearts. I have,

seen those, whose tears stream rainbows and then I’ve chanced upon those who turn merry music and melodies grey.

I’ve tried searching, for a world in black and white; one, that tells me my wrong from my right but forgive me for, I’ve always been, too dazed, by the glorious colours, of my sins.

You and I, we, were never meant to be, it’s been quite a while but you are still the colour I see, instead of the tangerines, I so loved, at sunsets, everyday. And you, the one with the ghastly turquoise eyes, do not cry, for the ones who can’t read your emerald lies-them,

poor bastards are searching, for, the visible spectrum and you, my lovely, are ultraviolet.

 

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