It
becomes black and white, to struggle for grays, hazy at
an
orange light. I pump the breaks, blare the music,
screaming
through mirrors. You cry, “Forever,” through
absence.
I cry for art, moving to a beat, slightly here.
We
meld so harshly, reminded of December, where hell
laid
heart. I see green, to stump for gas, sliding but a
second.
Lanes are vivid, where cars are silent, to cull for
auras.
Did we dance, racing through traffic, weaving a
moment?
Such a rush, to play it left, as if known for
“normal.”
I’m canvas and colors, probing paragraphs,
mourning
psychology. So many ‘ologies, inked upon
psyches,
to scribble poetry. I find us here, sipping
coffee,
afraid to flip a page. We feel for depth, ever slighted,
smashing
fluorescent lights. We grip the glass, where
blood
trickles, and scream ourselves awake. I’m sky-bound,
pitching
pennies, sketching follies. Our picture is shattered,
filled
with lines, running into dungeons. We grieve this
way,
spent with liquor, pushing ghosts.
