Dragonflies dart over the trickling rivers of traffic, metallic over metal, sheen over shine. Sweat drizzles down my face, sweat soaks my shirt. All the colors are still cooking, bent towards the bandwidth of this color blindness, the blended measures and fitful resonance my sight allows. All the colors revealing the comity between light and matter. The collaborative dirge of existence settling on the unchangeable stripe and the unseemly trope.
We erase our mistakes when we tell these stories, or repurpose the facts to fit the fables we endorse. It is always that best of all possible fib, that notion that even our wrongs are right. So we claim the virtue seat despite all our bile and venom. So we cling to a righteousness we can not know despite our vicious hearts. Invisible kings, and golden rules we would sooner break than follow. We color it all in greens and golds despite the darkness of our hearts.
I am only a series of dismal efforts and crass oaths. I am only the motion of the season and the sickness, the propriety of the probable. The sky is an easy boundless blue, the day warm and slow. The world teams with its flocks and swarms, a trillion appetites whetted and loosed. Light seethes, timeless and mostly true. Awash in the spectrum of the seen and unseen. Aglow in the aimless tailings of the day.