Slivers of Light
A thousand yellow and orange slivers of light vibrate.
Their heat permeates.
Slowly they glide into pairs and groups, singing as one.
Alas, this solitary yellow light remains.
The others have no use for it.
The loathe it for it is an abomination.
Is it really that different?
Is it not one of them?
It grows to detest itself,
Its rhythm is destructively interfering with itself
The other lights for a moment survey the frantic,
They see not its abhorrence of itself.
And If they could- Why should they care?
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