isaaclyman
When the colors fade, that is when I will love again.
Is gray a color? Gray is all I see. Love fades to a peripheral gray.
Again, I color my world gray with the brush of fading gray.
Flying the streets -- arms wide -- flap a little, child, or you'll fall. Flap a little and try not to run where the alleys are narrow or you'll scrape on the edges. Ignore. Ignore. But fly someday, arms wide, and flap a little. Fly in the streets.
Rise. Rise from the ocean, rise from the tide. Rise from the dusty waters. Your incoherence can be refrigerated, reheated later; for now, tolerate it, burst through surface tension with insolence, and flip the water from your hair.