Color Poem and Age/Companion

I am not clear on what we are supposed to be posting: Color poem, or color poem and another piece. I will post the color poem and another work.

Turmeric was shy violet. A swan wing on the elephant pink sky. Melrose, she of the Torrey Pine, off the Emerald Coast. Maple sugar and bonfires. Hidden oaks with magical fairies that lay within. Coral Serenades that swept up the beach in that pastel orange sky. Powdered sand lay at their feet. Midnight dreams, and at the dawn of the next morn’s sun, breakfast in ancient timbre wood. Autumn red-pink burns through the rose-tinted windows onto their creamy plates. That town of bearing corn-husks, which laid miles away, contained within it the man Rov, who held onto his memories like a baby to it’s bright transparent object which sooths it under a thousand suns until it leaves it dry and faded in the dirt. This is a scene. Unobtrusive and innocent. Doom rings up a register with bones inside, faded and dry. All marrow has been devoured on the table stone and it sinks down and down. Color. Love. Hate. Aspirations. But not depravity, there is no color in that. Only others that join it’s hand with theirs, leaving a stain on the dark space it inhabits.

Void and Muse.

//

My cheeks are rosy with the bitter nip of the cold. I walk in a wasteland inside my own mind, where I retreat to when I space out in blurry blackness. I see a girl and she looks at me, her eyes glowing black and blue and not in a metaphorical way. In fact, there is no purpose in her eyes.

I leave that frozen tundra and come to a woody lake. The water is surprisingly warm, not unlike lukewarm drinks of all spectrum but it’s nice and navy cool to the touch. Again the girl, now woman, stands in front of me, her eyes red with desire. She loves this place, this honored sanctuary of health and happiness. I feel no desire for her. Unfortunately, her eyes still betray her, there is no real love there. Firing synapses and oily chemicals.

I am old now and I stand on the top of a thousand mile high obsidian pillar that resides darkly and powerfully in the air. Mist in a foreign eternal autumn cover the earth thousands of lives below me. My mind is drained into a hard, durable, leather-rough thing. I have felt every color and now all that resides is an experienced, seasoned brown. The elderly woman lays beside me, staring up into the starry auburn sky, ablaze with millions of other worlds and souls. Perhaps I will see them all some day. For now I have more to learn, more concepts to explore. I step off the pillar and start my descent, eager for one more try, one more blur, one more swipe of the painted brush.

Seriously though can we have a post each week explaining the required posting?