He was a fairly settled fellow.
A quiet soul who’d rarely meddle –
except with red and blue, the only hues
he could construe. Indeed, he mixed chromatic
marvels from the two: subtle rosy azures,
reddish purples, lavenders in every tint
from light to dark and faint to bold –
“Behold!” the brightest made a friend remark:
“this day-glo violet could rival gold!”
He’d heard of gold. He knew that others
could see gold. And he had heard of what he
understood to be its drastic cousin yellow.
It frightened him – the way imagining
the third dimension might bedevil one who only
knew dimensions One and Two. He went to sleep
that night and fell into a glaring dream whose
scheme appeared to him sadistically to want
to plunge him in the molten colors of the Sun.
In a field of groundless white he met
the unimaginably bright catastrophe of Yellow.
He ran and ran and woke a blasted man.
No more was he a settled fellow. We hear him
bellow, sometimes, from his bed, to which
he’s fled in terror. Yellow is a hellish error.