My thoughts wander the layers of my mind like fire fluctuates in a dusty old fireplace;
Sometimes, my thoughts walk me through a garden smelling of bright, fresh red roses in their full glory, with lilac butterflies, both inside of me, as well as outside,
Leading me to a place unbeknownst, and all I know is that the place emits golden vibrations.
Other times the garden is rather barren, as I walk past it with disheveled hair,
And the only red that I see, is of the blood oozing out of my pricked feet.
At times my thoughts speak Mandarin, incomprehensible to me,
Other times Urdu, still incomprehensible, but exotic at the least.
I occasionally see a pink tint, almost fuchsia, as my thoughts weave violins playing and winds flowing, with a tress calculatedly falling across my face, adorning it.
But, before I know, the pink tint fades away inexplicably, and black fumes are contrived;
Violins get replaced by trumpets, forcing me to cover my ears, restricting me to reality.
Though, let me tell you, the wind is still blowing, only this time, it’s a hurricane.
My thoughts flow like water flows through a pipe; collectively, transparently,
Yet, I can’t guarantee that there will be no holes to the pipe.
I think my thoughts are a splendid rainbow, refusing to be subdued by a green or a yellow,
I know this is a contradiction to life through my rose coloured glasses,
But when do roses not wither?