All was lost in a vapid place.
They would have rather given it up
in a colorful era – in a time of doing –
but instead they left a dull and tired wake
and yet the following wake
was still more vivid
than the life of its remembered.
What was taken along the way,
other than the breath of the repressed?
The burglar was the mourner’s stares,
their clumsy words and unhelpful prayers.
Displayed then, and continued now,
despite the loss of a person whom they ‘cared’.
Earthen grey, and dusty day
were already known in the eyes of the deceased.
It seemed to fit the entire mood
that such a color would take its high place.
But a tone of the like had already plagued –
and simply skipped the souls of ‘saved’.