Wood ceilings replaced by processed ones,
So boring, with no patterns or imaginations,
Clearly entered reality,
It’s a shame, and I don’t know how it happened,
I thrive solely on colors,
With their polyphenolic depths,
It’s my Twilight’s blood,
Yet they taunt me,
I cannot surrender to them like winters ago,
Shed ignorance has dissipated that key,
I have spiked heels and cubicles ahead,
Please don’t turn grey,
Desired cushioned routine but please not accompanied by pigeons,
Breathe, breathe in the air,
But please limit the fog,
The rolling hills had it right with the titlewave bookends,
Each day reminded of the contrast,
Maybe that’s why colors shine so bright,
Juxtaposed to poetry, of course,
it is so a Wednesday,
Here comes the rain again,
Too big for its bridges,
It squeezes into the symbiosis,
Unwelcomed, but powerfully heard,
A surprising mirror yields a different perspective,
Bordered with red, there is beauty in pain,
Like the perception of an aesthetically perfect, polar tear drop,
Such a bold statement, yet you can see right through it.
Copyright © 2014
