Strawberry blonde on lavender on spotted pale skin over clear lungs and slim muscles of sinew

The touch of brown in the sea of green gives away her nature, our nature of independence and paradoxical unity

The brown curls are firm and water only makes them shine more, bold features and lines, save the small bones

Magical wands wisp along withering grands invoking the melodic tendencies of what once was and to him now is

I live in the swirling smoke of flavor spiraling up from a hole in an old license plate and I watch the interactions of the animated walls

My crutches shiver in the stale air from the chilled summer night, asking to be forgotten but refusing to be left alone

From the outside it seems impossible to get in, the square metal rod unyielding to grasps eager with anticipation

Once inside the bomb drops and the cannon fires, masked faces lead the attack taking refuge behind car seats and the slot machine

Slide the switch on but keep them dim, the glow of the purple light makes the white pop in the shadows of Christmas tree lights

The volume fluctuates with the preference of taste, the drums vibrate the couches and we shake with them, raging uncontrollably

Such chaos took root in between the yellow lines of a parking space when the lights of machinery made children flee

Two remained and watched the parallel yellow lines defy their identity, making an x to mark the spot of treasure hunted

But when they dug at the ground, the asphalt presented no obvious riches, merely a third yellow line on the second stair in the atrium

At the intersection of three yellow lines, true gold was found and thrown into a garage full of dust, so they brushed it off and watched it's eternal glow together in the smoky war zone with the music and the cold crutches