I am colourblind

As often as tears reach my cheeks,

I envisage the hideousness of a sunrise,

Or the crimson writhing in all veins other than my own,

For in these there is grey sludge, battling the negligence I know as my heart.

To be pushed through my arms,

And to my fingers,

And to the page, upon which I use the same shade to describe colours I have never known.

Each blade of green I can only understand through its stinging of my soles.

Or the blue of rain upon the head of this vessel,

Within which a child yearns to be able to see a Rainbow.