Cold rivers flow through us all at times.
The colors change occasionally,
sometimes red, sometimes green,
seldom white;
i can't stand this cold,
drives me pure and shivering
up to the soggy grass and
i lay there naked for hours,
basking in warm, pale
sunlight of the thousand tears
of my desires;
i pluck (razor sharp) blades of the grass,
and muse to myself that i am the
bringer of the fauna's armageddon,
but i would become the cruel
ruler of an off-white gray world;
i don't like the color gray, so
i get dressed and go home.