Some like prompts. Others don’t. You could use this title as one.
This came into mind looking at the pale blue wall in front of me. Then the weeds. I will admit I had need of some inspiration on something–anything, to write. This is a short snippet that I might find a use for in a fantasy/SF piece someday. I’m not a poet but some might consider this free verse.
Blue weeds flow in a faint breeze, arousing Art Nouveau memories. Sinuous, undulating images appear on mental murals. A vision of beauty fades. Melancholy moods return, days spent pursuing indigo hues. Forbidden palettes, love lost during the color wars. No, he would not go there again. She was gone forever. He could paint her no more, lounging within a garden of earthly delights far beyond Hieronymus Bosch. Too much sorrow. The oils weren’t made anymore, not in those tones anyway—by decree.