Well, at least I think it’s a pretty profound poem. It’s not exactly iambic, but…
He awoke in a bed of fine colors
They greeted him with all of their beauty
But he had no color.
They spun about him, sprinkling happiness
Try as they may to give him their colors
Alas, he’s colorblind.
This world, full of prismatic rays
Ignored by the one who lives in grays.
This foreshadows a writing about the color gray tomorrow. Or… later today. And a Chromomancy update.