Everything was grey.
The storm clouds,
his locker,
the marker,
his shoes.
The next day,
blue was all he could see.
His eyes,
his lips,
his cold fingers.
Red was what bled through the walls on Wednesday,
what bled through his skin,
stained the sunrise,
exploded from the sky,
filtered through his bedroom window.
Green.
Everything was green.
The grass on the hill,
the path in the woods,
the ivy that grew on the walls.
YOU ARE READING
the city
Poetryand no matter how much you water scorched grass and withering weeds, you will never make a garden re-grow -M.R c.2016
