Theory of Colours

Flutter thoughtlessly,
Amidst Greatness,
Idly watching resolute ideas,
Shift in tone,
With sporadic continuity.

White light decomposes,
Its intrinsic nature,
In tune with harmonics,
That swim all around us.

Dream-weaver -o- Dream-weaver,
It would be fairly odd,
To call me a believer,
But the truth evens itself out,
In the end at least.

For a spun web,
Fractalises its core,
Without loss,
And without anymore.

Spectrums of speech,
Freely impeach,
Nothing, but the perspective,
Of the perfectly-picked,
Platters of colours,
In which,
We live,
Breathe,
and sleep.

Rest in the vibrancy -
Refuge in the pastelised -
Recover in it all.

// a Weird Fish poem

Image Source