Wistful Blue

There used to be a lone picture that hung in the studio where I took music lessons in. It was a rather beautiful picture, to be honest with you, but I don't really think that anyone noticed it...you could say that it blended into the background. Not that the background was much, consider a few pale cream walls, an occasional orchid in a vase or two and that was pretty much it. Anyways, the "anyone" from before also included me...ask me to describe the piano bench in the room and I'll describe it better than I could describe that picture, ask me to describe the bookshelf with the peeling white paint that stood in the corner and I would be able to describe it better than that picture--Ask me to tell you how many tiles were on the ceiling and I would probably be able to give you a better guess than how that picture looked like. You get the point, that picture just was the type of thing that was always there, but you just never really paid attention to. The only reason that this picture was brought to my attention was during one particularly long (and what I deemed completely irrelevant) side conversation from my violin teacher. In an attempt to subtly disguise my bored-ness (okay, well not really. He knew that no one cared about the different between black tea and green tea), I began to look absentmindedly around the room and my eyes landed on it...
On a bare canvas,
an artist has poured out
their emotions.

Not subtly or quietly either.

the sadness,
and turmoil
blend with the hues
of love,
and ecstasy,
creating a slow waltz
of memories,
and pieces of the past.
The colors are bright
and then cold.
and then

But the color that most wishes to be heard
travels throughout,
sometimes merely a lurking visitor,
and other times, the star of the show.

These are the blues.
These are shades of melancholy,
That speak out with their irony,
and seem a stranger-
among the rest.
They brush past the violet,
in a swift and smooth gesture
and meet the greens with a final farewell,
for they have done their job.

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