When you're young, everything is bursting with color.
The scrape on your knee pools with
red blood, like roses budding in the front yard.
Your mommy hands you a Band-Aid: neon pink.
Iridescent tears project tiny rainbow streams
down your cheeks.

At school, you brag about the pink prize resulting from
your battle wound. The others' wide eyes sparkle
the deepest of blues, but you proceed doing
as you wish, choosing the first crayon to catch your eye.
In that moment, I grant you
the power to reveal colors that should be seen among
blank white pages.

You grow older.
The scrapes aren't
that bad, not enough for neon bandages.
There are no tears, there is no time.

Inevitably, my magic wand status withers. I become
battered wax, too worthless to maintain.
Left on the floor to be stepped upon by a teacher, or
broken by angry children, who refuse to see
the yellow sun hiding behind their thin gray clouds.

Not long after my wrapper is peeled, tip worn down, used
time and time again, I am forgotten, all is forgotten.
My wizards have grown old, they don't need me.
They don't want to see in color,
they aren't blessed with enough time
to splash
their worlds with neon oranges and greens. They now select
bland priorities and mundane routines
that confine their days.

What use am I, if they all grow up to see in
only black and white.