bind BLIND shined lined grind

Colours are nothing. For what are they but an illusion, Secluded deep within your mind. I see my own colours. The colours of perplexity, of imagination, Adulation, combined. My sights are hidden. No one enters my prism of conception, For within a single flame, confined. For days I search in vain. But among this wold there are few, And I find none of my kind. The world is broken. For nothing is as one, but split innumerably, Splintered, fractured, shattered, misaligned. See this, they say. I grasp, I move, I sense the atmosphere. And it is a simple chair I find.