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Red. Violet.

I read your violets and your empty vase,
so there was no need for the white paint
which you called "decoration, under the
moon in its orbital fluid motion of being".
Access disappeared into a crawlspace
where white was whispered into oceans,
into worlds of oceans which became worlds,
onto an awesome canvas, a dawn, where
our ilk gathered as clouds gather,
condensed lucid on morning's egg,
ready for thunder.