Prosaic with colorless
dimness, I am backlog.
I am just waiting
to get around…
I overhang between
myself and protocol
in this olive-drab air.

I have no tolerance for
no leniency
for ordinance.

In this head I speak
canary yellow—
florid and terra cotta,
until this muse, this convoy
—aurous and ablaze—
overtakes this umbrage.

Here, I am foreshadow;
directive in my awakening.


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