Home Up Prismatic How We Become Dorian Gray Watercolor Soul Gun Control The Ghosts Are Gone Drowned Will


"Prism:  a medium that distorts, slants, or colors whatever is viewed through it."



Her beauty shone like a prism’s colors in the sun

A bright and glorious spirit that could be compared to none

She floated through the atmosphere on wings of white and gold

I had to squint; her radiance was too much to behold…




Tumbling through her days and being wind-tossed to and fro

Edges chipped upon life’s stucco only added to her glow

A brilliance never muted by the pitfalls of this life

A watercolor soul whose depths could rise above all strife


Prismatic, prismatic…


But from her vantage point, an icy crystal, locked within

Her voice screaming to be rescued, never heard above the din

Of its own echo, trapped soundless, by the prism’s smooth glass walls

Without handhold, without hope, at a frenzied pace life crawls


Who could know it wasn’t real – what we saw from either side

Though to reach beyond the prism’s spinning meld of hues we tried

We were blinded by the images cut through by pain, denied

The reality of wakefulness, sleepwalking, hypnotized

By the colors, the colors, all the colors in our eyes,

Until blackness, only blackness following a blood red sky

(echo in background: prismatic, prismatic…)

Left but stark white in the absence of the colors now all drained

(echo continued: prismatic, prismatic…)

Until nothing but the memory of colors still remains

And I reach out grasping for this fragile object as it falls

But it’s just a ghost’s reflection which forever to me calls



















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