Estranged Flamingo

Behold how pleasure seeps through to the strangest places; as if it's effects could make a river climb a steep incline. A pink, feathered ball with a pipe cleaner neck and an old rubber nose, stands in stasis. Or should I says hops, where exactly do we draw the line? It's blinding pink is no sign of flamboyance nor an ostentatious display. Flamingos are what they eat and what they eat doesn't give a damn about their mental state in the coming months. Smirks creep, snickers descend, what colour of lonely shall it choose today? Grey would be great but the grim reaper is not someone one confronts. One leg to hold on and the other dedicated to keeping up appearances. A stand-up has no chance against a desolate land with an estranged flamingo slotted in centre stage. Spotlight focused, eyes agaze, feed upon this barren creature and forget common decencies. If only it could choose it's colour...red, red with rage.