To hear it spoken, it's not a colour
It means a story explored
And not by sight, not with eyes
But with fingers caressing a page

First colour or fruit? No matter to me
It means a cold, sweet orb
Pockmarks felt, but never beheld
A finger tracing the shell

Not a banana, never the sun
It means a coward or old
Is a coward truly colored so?
I'll never truly know 

Life and spring, health and birth
No, it means you're new
Life is a smell, health is a feeling
Green is a concept not felt 

Never a sight, nor "Why is the sky...?"
It means a feeling so sad
But not by frowns, not downcast eyes
By sighs and the tone of their voice

Nothing like blue, nothing at all
It means some pea-like plants
That I've never smelled, nor heard nor felt
So a word most useless to me

Purple's child, or it's own colour?
It means a sweet-smelling flower
Not grapes, not Prince, not paint, not royalty
But fresh in the mouth and the nose

This is my rainbow, a rainbow of words
Of concepts and objects touched, smelled, and heard
Rain can be picked up by ears, sun by skin
But the rainbow they make for me will never be seen 

The End

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