A Pome a Day for a Year

I choose the oranges and the pinks,
for they are warm and plentiful,
they caress my eyes with joyful smile
and laughter so sweet that I hear
bells ring and I expel air
from my beautiful lungs,
chest pushed outwards as rainbows
rush over me and the light
bathes, my body aching!

Calling to the colours inside,
no verbal cries needed, they rally
and prop and lift and shout,
and we are one,
an army of one battling an army of most,
their weapons solidified and entrenched,
against my own whittled rods,
the odds are stacked,
but my colours encircle,
oh they cover eyes and ears,
their screeches and visions
blind and deafen and cocoon.

This war has no end, my colours
stalwart in their foundation, my feet
shaky upon their decking, but
I am connected forever, the prongs
of pink and orange and blue and yellow
are tendrils that float and pull
my puppet movements aghast,
my will never really mine.
The army of most,
looks on disgusted.