Communication sent between colors
has no meaning. Meanwhile, you yearn
for purpose amidst plaster safe-havens.
The children fall asleep in city streets
and dream green and brown covered
in red and blue, anxious for the day
that all they have to worry for is starvation.
Which will be the first for your sepulcher?
Exposure or drugs or any other unclean
invader of your sterility? And yet you crave
the sick man sitting only two amputated feet
away, smiling around others also in pain,
knowing running in the light is more tedious
than nothingness. Yearning for that instant
of beautiful survival.