The day grows dark and
hollow, like a hole
composted out of
disintegrating giants,
and the rainbow
streaks orange red, the shoal
of colors crushed on
the end of a spectrum. Tense
and tired, searching
memory for hopes
or opportunities
unrealized,
a tumulous of broken
promises lopes
over the horizon, a tumult
undersized,
so that the sky tilts
over, the moon expands
beyond the rink of
cloudy aspirations.
Dark and hollow, cold
and silver strands
of melancholy—red
dwarf notions
intersecting with
despair, like a split
between primeval
playfulness and wit.
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