Let's pretend I’m false realist living in a country house painted white-
-er than my skin. Taking one part milk two parts tea with my antipsychosis-
red or blue? It doesn't matter the color it's what’s inside. Cyanide or morphine? It could be either or neither but the color will never say. Shade has no lips to speak. Coffee- black- at noon.
Read the paper:
God Save The Queen! Why does god only save the Queen?
Perhaps my windows are stained glass portraits of F. Fitzgerald
and Rosa Parks. Another sip of coffee- black- as societal
issues sink my lungs in defeat, a horrendous ache in my
temples is reincarnated.
Glints of red window glass catch my attention from the corner of a
wandering eye- reminding me instantly that I’ve taken
the wrong pill.