Running over the brim; soon deep under,
A jar of honey, and green lit matches.
Fast engines and heavy rusted reds;
Loud working workshops in rotten corpses.

Greens and blues, yet they're just hues,
Deep browns, yet no more than frowns.
Burnt black papers, no clearer than skies,
Contrasting roads, all clear and wide.

Jars of hope yet four broken,
Puzzle pieces in different boxes.
Laughing mothers, sweet sour voices;
Agonizing peace, thriving in litter.

Crying windows, how can they lie?
Mundane hues, tints and shadows—
A white canvas, intensely dazzled;
Like the back of a mirror,
No life, no smiles, just silver lines.