Backside

Night eats color,   

Flower bouquets lose their fake ornaments.   

Day falls into the leaves like sparkling fish   

And struggles, like the lowly mud,   

The shapeless dreams and trees   

Nurtured outside this shriveled, deridable despair.   

And the space that was chopped down   

Tickles the weeds there by its feet.   

Fingers stained with tar from cigarettes   

Caress the writhing darkness.   

And then the people move forward.