Existence, a colorless sheet.
Its people, an individual shape.
All in aims to brew shades.
'Stir, stir' the living sings.
In the pot, plotting a cause.
Inside, a ship sinks with hundreds in its stomach.
The guiding captain swims to shore, with vigor to survive all on his own. On board the children cry, awaiting a rescue, from the outdoor sky.
The abandonment plunges the pot, brewing the most visceral grey.
In, many stayed behind, crossing the drowning hallways, into the salty sea.
'Give me your hand. We will all survive to the surface.' echoing compassion to the forsaken crowd.
Hand in hand, leaving none, striving to surface, united they become.
The unity plunders the plot, brewing the most delicate white.
What is your brush the most drawn to?
'Stir Stir', the living sings again,
In the pot, plotting another cause.
Inside, a mother leaves, her two sole children, in the hands of the viper'ish kind.
'So long! A must farewell!' The mother cries to her broken children and off she goes, to survive.
With surrounding so cruel, allowed was no child.
Thus, the left behind souls, grew tall too early.
With a taught repulsion to childhood, the two children were, with time, tall'ed towards parenthood.
The eldest dreaded their child's cry,
'shush!' and 'hush!', they maimed the child.
'You are not to cry. You are not to sing. You are not to pray. You are not to being.'
Lashing out tunes that they once heard someone scream.
Out from their way, spiraled out a violent shade of blue.
The youngest, however, remembered themself as a child, each pale tears out another, reminding of what the past had once offered, an inescapable turmoil, out their little hands.
'Safety a big word, speakable only by those tall.
And if I must speak, I shall speak, what you cannot but deeply deserve.'
Sang the youngest, and from their choice, surfaced a beautiful shade of gold.
From the produced shades,
What will your brush dive into?
'Stir Stir', sings the living, yet again.
In the pot, plotting the third cause of the day.
Inside, a man meets his potential friends.
More than three, there are, for him to choose.
With each, he spends half of his life.
With one, his early years, planning future adventures together, with their milky teeths.
The other ones, his early youth, during the forgetfulness of his passion, joining a new team. What and who came before, slowly fading out his growing mind. Tragedy ofcourse, the ticking time, that grew apart the early bond of innocence, that corrupted the later souls.
Poor was his fortune, as he made fickle friends who missed none of his absence, who described his nature using languages, ugly.
The deafening betrayal, the blinding disloyalty, breaking the youth's hope in comradery.
"He thinks he is all that! He said this and this about you! I tell you, he is rotten. We best believe to stay far apart from that mistake of a creature."
The faithful ears, delivered all those sayings right to his heart.
With wilting hope, 'Never again. Never again.' He cried.
Out from this terror, bursted forth a despicable shade of violet.
Passing many years, reaching the lines of thirty. There he met, a different crowd. Nolonger wearing similarities that once guaranteed him an unbreakable oath. Unfamiliar and unappealing, his reasonings found. But with years of meet, noticed he, the unyielding seek of his presence in a room empty of him, the uncorrupted gaze that recognized his truth, the untarnished tongue that spoke the correct terms in his descriptions, the valuable gaze that offered patience, the eager ears that pleaded for his words. This crowd, was different, so unalike his kind, so unalike his past aims. 'This time, have I made a friend?' with his surrendering heart, pondered he.
Out of this happening, emerged a hopeful shade of pink.
What will your brush, glide to represent?
