Palettes

Poetry

If you were told it poison,

Ne’er would it glaze your palette?


Ne’er would it glaze your palette,

The eye and the mind suffice.


Our palette is dry.

When the fluids began to flow,


It did not water like a Spring garden,

On Sunday.


We be told it poison,

And our palettes be cursed by holy words.


We keep our mouths closeted.

It hopes to keep our garden in spring,

As all the other gardens.


Not all but some.

They want not their palettes glazed.


They withhold for too long,

Yearning and praying,

Begging. They break.


They whither and wilt,

And dry out.


And you be told this the cause,

Of it being poisoned.

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