Pigment I myself on a calico canvas, in paled hues
Gray clouds sedate me and chafes me the rainbows.
Gates of spring in me, parades the nameplate of fall;
Immure I my self, backside of the absolving wall.
Uninventive and juice-less I lie, along the river soil,
Athirst I remain, neath the slaking rainfall’s toil.
In bunches I pass, yet trammeled to me, is my talk;
Seas of silence I hoard, a driblet of serenity I lack.
Illume I, a taper of hope, ahead my closed sight;
Yet euphorically cleaves, the dourest despair, tight.
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