Theory in Technicolor

Real is the Gardenia’s smell,

simmering in the summer heat.

The salty taste of thick, hot air

wafting off the Mexican Gulf.

The dart of green scuttling across the porch,

 hiding from prying eyes.

 

Some can taste the sound of wind

and dance to the color of rain.

Tiny whispers from the footsteps of droplets

singing secrets to your private brain

 

In and out the sunbeams skip

fluttering behind blue light.

In between the night and day

a silver string pulled tight.

 

Strung out on crack coffee,

like Christmas lights in July,

Being beaten by the hot gulf winds.

Fireflies trying to survive.

 

Theory in Technicolor

On a kaleidoscope computer screen

My eyes lose their footing

And roll across the hardwood floor

 

The moon doesn’t seem so friendly tonight. Perhaps he lost a star. She brought her light down for a beach vacation, and her absence makes him scowl.

 

How sublime a sweetheat beach

when the fireball hangs high,

But I’ll tell you this:

There’s something magic between the sand and moon

that even the pope couldn’t deny.

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