There's no evidence
Outside of the standard fare
Newspapers, melodies, and such
That any of us are real

The way we dispatch
With pleasantries and daydreams
And recoil from the sunrise
With the swiftness of a blink

There's only proof
That we squander oxygen
With every infected inhalation
And do it all over again

Traced by a pencil,
We're still waiting
For a simple splash of color,
Both brilliant and bright