Have we, in contemplation,
misconstrued the nature
of these things intact?
A black that brims with blacker vim
weighted by the whims
of what’s unseen.
But green is still ineffable,
and what I mean to say, intangible.
Thus the script, illegible,
lusts after meager rhyme.
“It’s killing time,” the wounded say,
“For those who would dismantle Day.”