A prism held to my flame

A prism, which divides light into the spectrum
Photo by Sasha • Stories on Unsplash
Some mornings I wake up with my eyes red,
pressed like orange juice and likewise strained
(when the yellow liquid's gone you're dead,
a green dumpster will carry your remains)
Sometimes, when you're picked from out the blue,
you feel a royal wrapped in indigo,
Plucked, like you're a violet when it's new,
when you're withered, out the vase you go,
If I'm chosen, I don't really care,
in the cabinet must my hand reach
get the eyedrops, clear my eyes and stare
past others' discernment so my speech 
is light that's not through flattery inspired,
sourced instead from my internal fire.






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