Trombones Are Blue: A Loud Look Into Synesthesia

An A is red.
It'll always be red.
That's what they said.
But at least for me
It's just an A I see.
That's what's in my head.
"It's not that form of synesthesia," I said.

Yet play on a horn or a violin
And suddenly the fireworks begin.
The A is orange, B-flat always yellow
Unless it is played by a tuba fellow.
Then it turns into purplish-green.
At least that's what I've seen.

My trombone is blue,
My favorite hue,
That's why I love to play an F.
For F is blue too
And when blue meets blue,
All is at peace in the bass clef.

In band, it's a kaleidoscope,
A tripping-out rainbow of hope
Smothering me in crayon-chaos cacophony.
At each rehearsal, I drown in the anomaly.
Each instrument is a hue that colors each note,
Like Skittles bubbling out of a singer's throat.

Birdsong is yellow, forests are blue.
(Don't let the green leaves fool you!)
So when birds fill the woody scene,
It all turns into brilliant green
Like the leaves in the trees,
And I hear a clarinet in the breeze.

They say my world is unique,
But it seems all so bleak
To imagine autumn not being brassy
Or red not sounding classy.
I see and hear the world differently than you,
And in my world, trombones are blue.