A crisp morning with a new bloom,
winter summer monsoon.
As bright as the moon,
a yellow that i croon.
But i have always been blue,
a story of the one that flew.
Lets just talk about the hue
Of blue that i see in my yellow moon.
I must tell you that this is
about my chrysanthemum;
A blue tune that i never
stopped to hum.
A melancholy that I never figured,
like the yellow petal that i see flying as a bird.
This is one of those stories from the herd,
of an omnipresent emotional curd.
So be it.
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