Can you paint with all the colors, of the wind?

Deep and murky, the depths of me, of my soul, froth and simmer, turning about like dirty laundry, brown, brazen, calmly boiling, serenely stirring about,, trapped, restricted. And out of the depths, a lemon bursts free, its spirit soaring high above its prison. "Me! Me!", it shouts, "I am free!"And yellow! So yellow. How could it be so yellow? Its free, free of rhyme, free from time, even with its rhythm and rhyme, the lemon-lime majestically shines. Then, with a soft shiver, the lime quivers in mid-air, sparkles fall to the ground, pink as a panther, smooth as the silkiest pearl. Soft shards of pink build up on the ground, higher and higher, a tower in the sky, in the high heaven of Earth. Slowly the pink darkens, blushes deeply, reddens in anger, in confusions, and with a scream they burst in the air, boldly molding into liquid. Thick and dark the redness gushes down, and settles down serene, screening the sun from view, yet holding the light of that giant star. Calmly the green shines, as around it the sky darkens, crickets chirp, owls screech with starvation, then the green begins to turn, to froth and bubble, to darken, once more, into brown.