the lukewarm paradox

balanced, having the best of both worlds to be both hot and cold, to slap, to pout, then claim to be a victim. get a prize for being under an umbrella, the sky rains drizzles of worry across a rainbow who broke her promise because she has forgotten to check the balance sheet, the cash till is off and a nervous cashier decides to play off base, dashes into wind tunnels dispelling frowns that remind the many colors that purple was often magical, red passion ignites all that fire erasing permanence and a forlorn look crosses the teary eyed gal who no longer has a paycheck, but her memory is intact, with the wind sending her off to high clouds where white is her tiles sending off another shape looking dreamy, dreamy certainty because white is never disputed, or wronged, she stomps angrily as her foot steps echo into tunnels livid with complaints from every mountain high, where each winner claims to be the first - on a crest already crumbling, falling recklessly into ravines deep cold black nothing. hardly a yawn, or a stifling of hopelessness the whimsical becomes dainty flowers covered in all that mud pleading for a green light to save those roots seeking water tucked deeply into earth still groggy from all that spinning non stop while her face becomes more and more blue and the doctor has told her she must stop all that wildness because the universe must go on without her, can do so but the physicist said a cataclysm would come about - that her work is not yet done, grinding halt looks to be a wishful gaze as amber alert begins to sound her warning, but the color orange has quietly been mistaken for that blaring noise blasting into the ears of a tunnel ferocious when a deadline is coming up, with many corners of the earth not yet swept up. she is howling, raging, to touch upon darkness tucked beneath clouds hovering, making symbols from smoky tendrils, smoky mountains with peaks so high the winners no longer held on to pieces of jagged, cutting rocks for soft pillowy beds seduced, tempted and winked like stars even higher where a yellow dwarf peers lazily on falling dots asking for more. wanting a miracle to touch that sacred spectrum where promises must be kept with cash registers unbalanced, and a shrewd gal has a shadow copy and an emphasis on flitting memories copies can agree with numbers ruminating on lost dollars cleaned out by falling men rushing to the center of gravity. they'll grab at anything, especially money that does not save. and as for broken promises, the rainbow mused: lukewarm was part of the agreement. i spit you out.