I count: A Silver line(ing)
Wait, two.
There they bask on top of his head,
(Is it just me or is it getting hot in here)
Dyed? I inquire.
No answer.
They lay, black-hole swallowed amongst
Livelier, Lonelier, counterparts
Youth, I imagine they think
To themselves, is a void(ing)
Reality.
Age is the neon pink vitality of last
Chances; they know
The average lifespan of their kind:
730 days.
--the queue groans forward two steps--
So they shift slightly and give in to an ebony hollow-
Ness (cafe) isn't good for your health-
I muse an an afterthought.
The nest shivers,
Rustles as the tree stalks away on neon pink
Roots, a beige trunk.