Color Spectrum

In the beginning, at the edge, in the very corner of the world,
where man goes to rest,
where the sun is buried by a rack of lonely spears,
is the first color.
The shedding of a tear. The crimson deliberation. A fourteenth of a soul.
It is the color of afternoons, and of ends.

In the shadow, by the wayside,
long forgotten and cast aside,driven past by hundreds of eyes,
minds with scared thoughts about insignificant dangers,
is the second color.
The paranoid memory. The flash-forward spectacle of a beetle. A recollection of doors.
It is the color of darkness, and of hidden things.

In the classroom, through the windows of a steel cage,
where even the best go astray,
where troublesome lives run aground and stay for an eternity,
is the third color.
The hopeful book. The way to a caramelized yellow fortress. A mindshare of wills.
It is the color of knowledge, and of being told things.

In a place so far you will never visit out of fear of the unknown,
in a remnant of a place, an alien husk,
uncanny,
and just a little too insane,
is the fourth color.
The unseen light. The spectrogram of a thousand snowflakes you will never see. A space.
It is the color of the unknown, and of the future.

In the last place, behind a closet you intentionally put there, behind a door you never open,
where no guest of yours has entered,
where none has ever looked, other than yourself,
in your darkest moments,
lies the fifth color.
The dormant strain. The sickly green dot of a wretched, dried raisin. A complete waste of time.

It is the color of help, and of wishful thinking.