There are the colors I imagine
when I try to paint
The hues that spill from my head
that sputter and writhe
when met with the weighty prospects
of real-life tangibility
Always dying in part before becoming
never truly existing
So many lost entrancing delights
that fade away like echoes
amidst their very creation
Attempted manifestations
can only pale in comparison
to the imagined dream
this speech of the soul
that both fights and yearns to be seen
These shining shimmering fantasies
like stars unreachable
resist my desperate pleas and coaxes
to attach them to this canvas
what torture to endure
that there be these colors

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