Silos on the Spectrum

A golden boy, green with envy, now of age, the silver fox;

blue thoughts, red eyes and coats of colours bundled in my big black box.

When this plane comes crashing down,

and my return ticket's cancelled ,

through rainbows into aqua seas

the repose will be dazzled.

Investigators may all fear

the white hot glow of flames

not knowing that the dreary calm

was the culprit for the pain; 

and when one day their silouettes are snuggled by the sun

they too will see that truth is a glacier second to none.

An icy chill, a sombre shade of things never to come;

the skies turn grey and thunder booms, their shadows scared and glum.

They'll then swallow the same white noise - a harsh, deafening still

until the day the rain returns, unless it never will,

for now it's only scarlet that cascades from the heavens,

the blood falls fast, this flood might last

the streets all paved in weapons; 

and on a wall inside the brown brick home down on the corner

is the painting showing all the colours,

someone should probably warn her 

that hate for something mirrors hate of self

and love is left reflecting

like a darkroom negative on a shattered pane

where dust had been collecting.