They were blue,
The blue of the unsullied sky of yore,
the blue of unattained barony,
the blue of loyalty and truth.
They were blue,
the ironic blue of lust,
the blue of the scourging flame,
the blue of the scorching star.
They were blue,
and then they were gone,
back into the sea of the faceless ones.
And I was alone.
he sits there, waiting. waiting.
on the corner of 25th and 8, his overcoat well-worn with the wisdom
of yesterday’s scraps and today’s dew.
guitar in hand – out of tune – strumming along to a song only
he remembers.
silhouettes pass him by, flashes of the rainbow, desaturated in
the rain-sent gloom.
and he sits there, waiting. waiting. waiting on the world to change.
