Faded rose skies
Blushing with the anxious jaundiced pallor of a skinned peach,
Exposed, waiting, cease to breathe.
Waiting for the world to stop,
Waiting for the purge of poison-laden memories,
Waiting for a hopeful future to uncover itself.
Life instead writes a memoriam in sand,
Letters of gold ephemera blowing across continents,
Sullying all in its path,
Stating, all shall bow to time
And be seized by that haunting sepulchral shade,
Of worried orange, sickly pink, diluted clumsily in a canvas of weak moral fiber,
To be released in the oubliettes of memory
Of what it means to exist.