The Irony of Wonder

Wonder,

It can be a horrendous thing.

So ironic, and drastically

Iconic, that you'd forget

To paint your childhood in color.

Mine was doused in black and white.

 

You had told me that

My colors had faded.

And through these 

Squinted-shut

Monochrome eyes,

I saw no rainbows.

 

And when I opened them,

I began to paint my world -

By hand!

And only then,

I saw the beauty of color

Again.

 

It was up until the point of 

Combustion,

An unequal explosion,

To which people had ran in fear

For their lives.

All that I had seen was pure

Evil and only - when my life

Had been repainted.

 

Color is a wondrous thing.

A horrifying thing to which

People forget all together,

That with wonder and beauty

Comes a hefty price.

You see many things,

And happy or not, you also

See a world of hatred and 

Despair.

 

For all I see now is the cold truth.

Maybe black and white isn't so bad.

I wish I could go back,

But I can't.

We are all stuck.

With beauty comes pain.

 

And that's just how the story goes.

For, this has no fairy-tale ending.

This is what happens when 

Wonderful things happen.

A world of blindness,

And if only the deaf could hear,

And the mute could speak...

Wonder would come to them.

But they may be better off

Just how they are.

Purely innocent.

Black and white.

 

Monotone beauty - and it paints

Their hearts,

For it is written on their skin.

But us,

We are a world of color.

We are a wonder filled world,

Of horrific experiences.

 

And that is exactly how this story ends.






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