Technicolour, Felt

Spoken like a true artist, blindness in colour seems only a hurdle to overcome.

But what troubles befall a man who sees only in shards? To recognise moments as they come but never in ones memory.

Is memory a colour?

My eye sees purple, my mind glimpses blue. Was magenta a thought; or indigo a feeling?

I taste lilac on my lips, smell crimson in the wood.

Verdant pastures, lime soaked valleys, the sage and the shamrock. Are these the complexions of life? If so, nature is a shade of jealousy.

Fuchsia stings like tears, teal like nettles.

Gold throbs in my veins, the ichor seeps ruby.

I hear jade whisper and graze maroons cheek. I see pieces, not the whole.

Colours are a language that not all of us can comprehend.