One day while building my rainbow the wind picked up and shot my colors everywhere. It had a square chin and a medal, a tin soldier with a spray can, graffiti towards violence. The Skittles pinged off the streets careening past and towards the gutters that always seem to attract the unwanted.
Those rainbows were chemically induced, flowers of a kind and all sorts of hues. Why there were shopping carts full of Oleanders and crab grass and shattered pictures in bent frames. Some people called it art while others sold tickets to a show called faith and amens and the shriek of elder attendees keeping the young minstrels in check.
Fawn eyed psychopaths with hearts as rough as a brillo pad tell the sick and wanting there is a place for them. Where colors are arranged in Crayon box and to be used with caution. Not with my Lavender crayon will you use for it is a special instrument. One too powerful for those of us do not understand. The critics do Broadway and sign autographs for a show that ends up on late at night and no one is sure if it really aired.
The end of this rainbow spilled silently like lava and running off to lakes, ponds and oceans to be rained upon us, again and again.
Floyd, Times Are Changin 