Who am I?
A definition not found in words,
though,
I search putting ink to paper.
Perhaps an ever-shifting, effervescent shade of
blue.
Colour of skies and choppy seas,
calm and storm.
But no,
that’s not quite right.
I rarely feel like blue.
Most change from day to day.
In a colour, in a word.
A painting made of growth, and struggle
in place of brushstrokes.
Who am I?
The question rings today,
and everyday
with a step into the next awakening
learning my true colours,
shift.
While it seems this synesthesia
puts soul to sight,
I cannot define.
Though I strive.
Ever searching.
About the Creator
Midnight
60 seconds… 59 seconds… Time was slipping through his fingers, though he clawed at the falling grains of sand, he could not stop the hourglass from flowing. Around him, the silence was deafening. He had taken over every screen in the command centre, putting the terrible seconds before the terrified eyes of his friends and comrades.
By Alexander McEvoy3 days ago in Fiction
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