53

Mischief is often a necessity

when things are seeming too structured and fixed,
and the face needs to smile and smirk wryly,
and one's cultural spectrum is unmixed:
I mean, the colors, that is, the color —
the blending together of distinct hues,
so that the celestial-sky pallor
is nixed and the gamut of dreams infuse:
This sticky head with grand thoughts of pigments,
blending clearly in vivid aquarelle,
redressing blank slates with splatters, statements
wordlessly lifted from the darkest well:
The void is like a city at nightfall,
whose Christmas lights cast a meaningless pall.
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