The Color's of the Wind

March 7, 2013
By duffman88 SILVER, Mequon, Wisconsin
duffman88 SILVER, Mequon, Wisconsin
7 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Être homme est facile. Être un homme est difficile."
"To be man is easy. To be a man is difficult."


His creaking bones are covered by a thin layer of skin,
Saran-wrapping his veins.
Sparkling blue rivers of life flow through deserts of drying skin.
A staunch veil of cumulus clouds surrounds his deteriorating mass.
Through faded, weathered, pools of grey, all that can be seen is whiteness.
Bland walls appear to expand endlessly —
Except for the blinking of one red dot,
Pulsing steadily.
This heart marks the sole reminder of his remaining life force.
His eyelids droop as the room’s gravity heightens.
With a silent roar, they shut one final time,
But in the darkness, the man’s soul casts a shadow of rainbows.


A phoenix bursts in a blazing fireball,
Scorching sockets and blinding corneas with its beauty.
Through death, the Chiclet has been reborn.
So the cycle begins.
Sticky red goo congeals about the child’s body.
Rubies sparkle as the blood cries off the child’s face,
Marking the untouched perfection that purity conceives.
A warm, crimson glow emanates from his cherry-red cheeks
While the Earth’s newest victim giggles incessantly.


The golden sunrise of youth casts its healing rays upon the world
Slowly changing from infancy to youth,
As leaves transform to flaming orange hues.
This caterpillar of creation blooms into a magnificent monarch butterfly.
Tangerine wings flap joyously,
Exploring the world with its newfound mobility.
The child moves from crawling to hobbling about.
This excitement heats the desolate Earth with hope
Like a roaring fire comforting a dying, frostbitten explorer.


The teen years are full of energy.
His passion cascades down like the sun’s rays.
Buzzing freely from place to place,
This bumblebee hardly stays in the hive —
Except when he brings his sweet Honey over,
But they pay the parents no mind.
His sweet nature with friends turns bitter towards his parents,
Who are forced to endure the occasional sour drops of this lemon.
A divide has become apparent —
He thinks in terms of Yellowcard
While they are stuck in a Yellow Submarine of the past.
Even through these times of transition,
His intrinsic beauty remains.
A yellow daisy, he aids the appearance of Earth’s garden,
Aspiring to emulate the splendor of Eden.


As this flower grows, he becomes fertile.
Instead of an annual, he aspires to become a perennial.
Setting his roots in firm soil, he searches for foundation.
The green light flashes bright,
Telling the man to move forward.
He continues to search out his other half.
Eventually, he stumbles upon two emerald eyes.
Enamored, he attempts to speak,
But between his drooling mouth and dry tongue,
Not a word escapes.
Soon the two lovebirds marry.
Happy as can be: two peas in a pod.
From there, green clovers shoot up with this Irishman’s luck.
Blessed with two young saplings,
His new family is the ideal.
The neighbors confirm this fact,
Scowling green with envy.


Suddenly the years, steady waves, seem to flatten,
Each molecule of the sea is a gem of sapphire,
Winking to the world,
Sparkling in blissful serenity.
Time passes as if under water, a blur.
The tide ebbs and flows with ups and down,
But the sea remains calm —
Until Atlas takes a coffee break,
Which crashes the once innocent sky downward.
Forcing a ripple,
Then a wave,
Then a tsunami
Upon the once calm seas.
Heaven’s pearly gates swing wide,
As mother and father depart.
Salty tears rain down,
Tainting the taste of paste joys
Because the man realizes
He will be next.


The old-timer sits at the dinner table
Feeling fulfilled as he looks into his family’s eyes.
Each child, a worthy member of his kingdom.
His sweater bathed in deep violet,
Marks the robes of a true king.
He has raised and nurtured each subject at the table.
They are as sweet as the scent of his lavender centerpiece —
His former love’s favorite smell.
He sips his prune juice, smiling faintly
Because that is exactly what his body has become:
A shriveled mess of his old self.
Yet as his granddaughter hugs him tight,
Embracing him softer than velvet’s caress,
He regrets nothing.


As this grandfather clock chimes its final hour,
One last exhale seeps out of the man’s crusty lips.
The reds and violets and everything in-between
Slowly are pushed from the carcass,
A simple carrier.
Swirling together in a beautiful blend,
They combine in an explosion of white light —
A blinding light —
That sets out to wake the night sky
And paint the world anew.

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