The Primary

It was our world in the purest form

Reds, blues, and yellows

From which our colors were born.

The colors torn through to make

A scar in the aura of this setting sun.

Millennia of advancements

In atmospheric make up

Have made her exit gaudy

And a bit overrated.

This is the picture perfect you paint:

The texture, the shading, the harlot, the saint.

You show me the ceiling,

You show me the man,

But all that's in focus are the artist's fine hands.