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A Picture Of Nothing

White, was the day of innocence,
behind the door, protected by the forest so dense,
she stood, watching the first snow,
a lifelong friend of beauty, she had found a foe.
Strode onto the snow, or was she taken?
Brave of heart or was she mistaken?
Upon her return, was she less or more?
Here or there, which was the right side of the door?

Yellow, was the day of truth.
In the brightness of the sun, she challenged her youth,
and stood beneath the rays, shining bright,
though burnt and spent, she found her own might.
Under the desert sun, when she stood again,
she admired his ferocity and embraced her pain.
Was it a choice or an inevitability she succumbed to?
Was it enough to feel free, right and true?

Orange, was the day of discovery.
Night before the storm, she rode the ferry,
To get to herself she crossed the river
No anxiety, panic or fear, just an excited shiver.
Over on the other side, she’d be harder to find,
disguised her body with pleasure and sin, opened her mind.
Should she taste, return and perhaps revisit?
Or pursue further to a path more brightly lit?

Green, was the day of the soul.
Smoke, trees, a fire and some coal.
Alone, she spoke to an inanimate friend.
Without a form; no cut to heal, no wound to mend.
The forces came to life to interact,
as she stood at the precipice of both fiction and fact.
Had she lost or had she gained?
Was she finally free and unchained?

Blue, was the day of limits,
from the bottom of the ocean to a mountain’s summit.
She walked a vast and ruthless spectrum,
the sky she’d approach and return with a hum.
The universe attacks with great intolerance.
An unapproachable arena and a whole other sense.
Should she have risen against natural inclinations?
Could she have otherwise interpreted the implications?

Purple, was the day of violence.
Fearless, she needed naught a door or fence.
In all the royalty of being free and loose,
the crown that anointed her was a bruise.
Glorious, unfettered, enticing and raw,
diamonds of rage, enthralled, she saw.
Should she have tried harder to throw it away?
Or perhaps tried harder to make herself stay?

Brown, was the day of change
All too seduced, she forgot it may be strange.
Walking through the woods, she admired the maze
Higher than the strength of the trunks, was her intent gaze
Wading through the mud she was cleaner than ever before.
Safer, too, she was without need for a door.
Ought she have respected the masks we wear?
Is the world our home or do we need a lair?

Red, was the day of rebirth.
Of blood and its glory, there was never any dearth.
As she soaked in the water that fast changed shade,
the time that never existed began to fade.
All it left behind were tainted droplets of lessons,
whispered into the blackness like unholy confessions.
Where is the girl who ceased to be?
Is she really there or a mere illusion we see?

Black, was the day of nothing.
A needle, a canvas and a ring.
The relics of a life of nihilism and profound joy,
the playthings of a real live toy.
A voice sings into the darkness of the night,
it could be her, once beholder of light.
But can we really decide, or tell,
who she is and from where she fell?

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About ancilla9876

I'm a young, female, Indian submissive and masochist. I am many other things, of course. But this blog mostly deals with the contents of my lede sentence.

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