black and white with grey about the edges
my honest words just stopped ringing true
and with all the wandering in specific directions
this haphazard life always comes back to you

when truth falls from unclean lips of stone
and the ground rebels at the acid stain
the flowers decide to reluctantly grow
and you wash them in redeeming rain

speaking the language of overflow
sound piled up in scattered heaps
the needle lost herself in the last straw
but this memory of light she keeps

the water is clean and my hands are not
yet I'm supposed to shine in the dark
four thousand tongues are still too short
and you alone can make your mark