Perhaps if the world were blind,
or could only see, the way we would
a sunset, a stenciled life, in a golden haze,
we wouldn't think to question
our days.

For those eyes
there is the sky, the life of sea and blossom,
the colors we see when the sun is high,
and we're left to admire the day.

But colors get washed away
like the exit to the world when it rains.
And there you are, safely out of reach and forever above,
and all we can do is imagine your efforts
to prove that you're more than a dream.

Here, in this broad spectrum of color
and light, where against, you should tower
but only become a gleam.
I bet you, too, bulb and bloom, along endless fields,
forever seen but unseen.

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