Tuesdays.

I sat once in a puddle and it wasn't as wet as it was slippery
I swear that I lost my stability in the morning but it is two past noon
and I can't I open my eyes.

Playing with shapes I learned that color is only a convection of the mind
Puddles are purple in my pupils and it's because of my dexterity
Green to me is blue to you
red to me is never as true
silver stands solid in your soft foresight
while mine has never blushed a bright hue
splattered yellow,
frostbitten plum,
The soul is colorless as the moon lights my room.

You say nothing in the face of reality and only speak up wind to be heard by the muted ear.

Rejection is the key to recipe - only in turn to impress thee.

Stand ground in the shadow of daybreak
Because, as time has told - it is time for me to appear at my pre-scheduled
7 1/2-minute
morality-monitored
snack-break.