If colour was rich,
You’d be chasing rainbows.
Endlessly seeking,
A flickering pot of gold.
Fire was your name,
Insatiable and alive.
Your candle burned bright,
Yet went up in trailing smoke.
Writings of a Phobophobe.
If colour was rich,
You’d be chasing rainbows.
Endlessly seeking,
A flickering pot of gold.
Fire was your name,
Insatiable and alive.
Your candle burned bright,
Yet went up in trailing smoke.
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