Color is the scaffolding
Remains when feeling rots off bones of the seen.
No, Aesthete, the line is not bare — azimuth, arc of peregrine faith, it is still fraught with nautic thrusts
Impelled to plot the promise of frontier, even faint.
But a stilled heart admits the nudity of hues.
Sculpted in bas-relief, palette oils mime the depth of things
No longer rounded out, ballooned like glass filled with desire’s breath.
When does blue cease to be a mood?
When does green slither backwards in its unbirth to stasis?
Find yourself looking to pigments as facts, and then you will know.
For mine, I saw the amber dappling of shine, vestiges pocked in the face of thought,
And trusted this fossil-memory of riches, preserved for a dormant one.
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