London Poem: Day 273

17 May

We call the color, what
We call it, when we
Need it, at a given time.
The breath, long and sweet,
Softens and the shade dulls to
Satisfy a softened eyes.
Ah, but as the breaths draw short,
Stifling, cold and anxious,
The colors grow dark to
Fit the mold of what we need,
When we need it.
Nothing is permanent –
It is all flexible to fill
The world as it spins
At present.

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Published by

keelancrampsey

In flux

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