Written by: Peter Golden

Chasing our shadows within a 
mixture of helium and glue, 
denied access into a world 
of colorless azure blue 
as a skeletal version of ourselves 
enters a wasteland 
we dream to call a room. 
Realities shrill whistle 
always plays to us in tune, 
a misnomer we regularly embrace 
and all too often, 
neurotically consume 
in spite of our contradictions, 
which on a sunny day 
always appear to us as a 
magnificent colorful bloom.