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Envy's bedroom walls aren't green
aren't battlefield camouflage
or an immaculate lawn.

They aren't orange with downfall
like a leaf preparing to plunge
or a home soon to be ash.

They aren't yellow with joy
like the brightest marigold
or the jackpot winner's riches.

No, they're smeared pink
Flushed with jealousy
like a nursery rose strewn away
or a brick worn to smoothness.

It's the color of wanting to be red
to be a wound well tended to
to be a fire hose saving lives
but not quite getting there.

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through_my_eyes said...
Oct. 7, 2010 at 8:38 pm
Very nicely written!!!! Especially your last line, it makes you go beyond the poem and get you thinking on your own. Very meaningful :D
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