Interludes and endings always
fade to black or white.
They don't invite any intervention
to suspect a perfect height. Fighting
off all creation as it tries to fade away
as those moments of tension are
lost to fleeting greys, paying tribute
to contributing artists arresting their dreams.
Shelving all their projects above golden
speckled reams of wasted chances
and feared outcomes in the rows
or ordered chaos the boss had them
clean up.
Thirty-one-thousand days
wasted away. Hiding in his tinted purple box
to gleam in the light
to blind the teary eyed monsters
paying men to take him away
to a place hid in darkness
and eaten by bugs. Beneath rugs
of purple dust settled
he lays in wait.
Silently. Motionlessly.
Feeding soil and growing trees.
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