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Rated: E · Poetry · Arts · #1091679
poem about primary and secondary colors and how they are made
PALETTE FIGHT

Forces lined up in regimental style,
The red, the blue, and the yellow.
Troop commander comes in with a swish of a mane,
And shields his eyes from the color stained plain.
Perceive the water, that began crystal clear,
Reflecting the blood shed in an elliptical mirror.
Painting by numbers,
The commander gave orders,
and the fight began to spread like a rumor.
Dressed in red the war lord set forth,
He tackled the yellow knight who set his hands on wide girth.
The sun rises from the east and the light is cast over this grapple,
Orange kissed, the grass appeared dappled.
In comes the pale faced officer in blue,
Frightened by the hue before him cried over both men who had gone before him,
His blue tears fell over the red and yellow livery,
Between cries, he held his breath and sopped the sweat,
His once pale face now turned purple,
And clashed with the brilliant green envy for peace.
With all troops, taken to their knees,
Everything has changed within the space,
The commander goes to the water edge,
And flicks that mane,
And signals for the secondary fleet to come over the ridge.
Purple, orange, green splatter the countryside,
All territories remain covered,
And commander continues on with more war on his mind.




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