Under the low hum of a distance metropolitan.
There was a flick, flick. Goddamn wind. Flick.. of a lighter.
As I trade my breaths for $6.98, my eyes begin to close.
In hopes that I had some way to see more colors.
Black mountains lay at the base of space out here.
Marching in the dark, imagining the colors once waiting out here.
The colors are a huge bonus.
It's the feeling that throes us.
This euphoria evaporates and the feeling never lasts.
Oh, what a life to live, when the feeling never lasts.
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Author:
Noah (
Offline) - Published: December 4th, 2017 00:54
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 23
- Users favorite of this poem: LeashaBear56
Offline)
Comments1
I love the imagery of the lighting of the cigarette and its interpretation as a transaction. This search for color is extremely familiar. Is it found in the temporary buzz of a nicotine high, various forms of numbing entertainment, the art of poetry? Its funny with so many things going on in the city, so many people, that color is still so hard to find.
Thanks. I'm glad you like it. I'd say the colors represent something like a beautiful place you'd like to go back to. Beautiful places can be nasty places
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