Flat, Grey

You exit your apartment
Underneath the flattest periwinkle
Ceiling of your current city,
The heavens too exhausted to muster
Brilliant blue.

Another structure
Fallen to the pavement,
Scattered playing cards
Without an ace.

You find
Your former love,
A poem scorched
In burning verse inside your chest,
Is now the driest footnote
Far less relevant
Than Gibbon ever wrote.

Everybody's just a template,
Every step forward
A backspace,
Mass monotony
With minor variations.

You climb into your auto
Praying your faith is not
Another empty hope,
That there's a wild violet
Behind the sky
Awaiting opening.

- 3/28/25

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