She often painted rainbows in those days of wider eyes.
Some path through adolescence searched for promise in the skies.
A youngster streaming colors,
blending ever-so-anew.
To think that once prismatic,
Molly's pictures that she drew.

So often in the parkway, perched beneath a mid-day cloud,
among composing robins that could never sing too loud.
Though more times in the country
to construct the spectrum view.
To think so opalescent,
Molly's wonders shining through.

The cat who slashed her canvas, he had eyes for none of this.
He saw not painted rainbows, just deceptions in her bliss.
And all that spoke of promise
crashed like hail on the town.
To think so apathetic,
Molly's color-blinded clown.