Don’t reach up to meet my pride.

Written for a contest, had to mention at least three colours an image of the writers choice:



Greens of an avenue painted over with dust,
Wilted sandpaper banister, melting at dusk.
A pipe and a hook just to hang up a shirt,
Worn every day, the white’s covered with dirt.

Knowing better than to skip a stair on the way,
To salvation that is promised each passing day.
Stumble, and your browns will turn into black,
Wits in the corners with an apparent lack
Of truth in the stories that you swore were right.
Complaining to the day that just isn’t light.

Piped and hung up on a redeemed occupation,
Browned clothes, the only to last the duration.
Inked a napkin with the letters I, L and Y.
With torn hands, it stained blue as the sky.