No.
The lips lock
And won't budge.

Cries of men
From the grimy depths of the trash
Rise with loud flames burning tall.
Tears ball up in the eyes of the multicolored soldiers
And their gray oppressors alike who
Spit and ****.
Tears, blood, and mascara wash the New York streets
Clean.

A fresh painted face for the queen

Let's sit in Christopher's patch of grass,
So these matchstick moments that burn briefly
Can rest among us.
We'll carry them back into battle tonight
On our backs
As Diana's drum beats a smooth rhythm.

Never before has the color of stone been so radiant
As when the soldiers file out of their stone homes
To behold that colorfully calloused street.

In Grecian fashion,
The openly wild fighters pull capotes
Over their decorated uniforms
And charge.

Through the noise and through the pain,
Soft embers from the fiery battle
Float above the city.
Winds lift these delicate remains toward Heaven
Where defeated warriors like Cannon and Ulrichs
Feel the familiar consistency of these blacked bits between their fingers.
They smile and celebrate.

Finally, the bodies of men begin to wan
And topple.
Of those still standing,
Only some hold their heads high.

The victory fell upon our colorful
And tested soldiers.

Their enemies were left grimaced and gasping
On their knees begging for mercy
At the hands of those brave and beaten
Multicolored defenders.  

Afraid to be burned again, the powers of gray returned
To where their world made sense
In books and sermons.

The heroes moved on
To the next street.

No,
No more.