The palette of the sky is a Prussian blue
Fine and clear
A smattering of stars
A thin line of swirling veridian green clouds on the horizon.
The moon, it is Naples yellow
Words have passed over my lips
Spoken in firm resolve
The cerulean blue of your eyes
Flashed with a bit of manganese
You did not answer
You turned away
I sit alone under the waxing Gibbous moon
My pockets empty, a treasure lost.