Life
The random tints of blue are set beside
Some richer colors. Here and there the cold
One settles in a patch, like failure cried
There. It enhances chord-like yellow, bold,
And orange bursts. There’s too much beige and green
As usual and not too far away
Is brown, that boringest of dyes. Unclean
It isn’t, but the smear-like dull array
Prevails. The brightness of the harshest blood
Erupts too often. Life’s liquids are not
That hot, not always. They are more like mud.
More often they are like a scabby spot
Or muted sound, a flat line on a plain,
A pond, or waterhole that’s turned to stain.