grasping hands

I walk a silent city

lit with silver

on a canvas of white

a charcoal town

made of nothing but cinder

a town with a paper well

not a town, nothing but a shell

a empty , hungry cavern of hope

that houses my fear with discretion.

this city of mine pasted to the walls

slapped against my beating skull

the paint inside,

my panting mind,

demanding truths and demanding pleasures,

the paint inside my shrinking mind,

drying up on others dreams,

the paint inside my thirsty mind,

layering in beautiful heaps.

pouring and gushing in glorious streams,

overrunning the gutters

coating the streets

wreaking havoc and creating new,

trouble caused,

by a dab of blue.