Your pleasant purple and pretty pink
pixels pour from your teated horn
and into my cup of conscience;
they bathe me in memories of
nighttime drives guided by capering
flames of lamplight and hours spent
ruminating fields of information that
coalesce into a pasture of knowledge.
Your reclusive reds and bellicose yellows swing
like a stoplight on an unknown street.
The celestial light switch turns
on and off in an endless cycle, but
your portrait radiates a constant boldness.
As I accelerate toward fresh, faraway
fields of uncut grass, the silent, strong,
steady stream of your nectar flows through
the caverns of my consciousness, supporting
my sprouting stem as I drive toward
the red, yellow, pink and purple horizon.
Grade: 12
Washington, DC
Nashville, TN
The Little Prince
Finding my own “clean, well-lighted place” – Hemingway
Michael Bloomberg and Christine Lagarde