Colours are nothing.
             For what are they but an illusion,
              Secluded deep within your mind.
                  I see my own colours.
        The colours of perplexity, of imagination,
                  Adulation, combined. 
                  My sights are hidden.
          No one enters my prism of conception,
          For within a single flame, confined.
              For days I search in vain.
           But among this wold there are few, 
             And I find none of my kind.
                 The world is broken.
       For nothing is as one, but split innumerably,
       Splintered, fractured, shattered, misaligned.
                   See this, they say.
         I grasp, I move, I sense the atmosphere.
            And it is a simple chair I find.