Can an artist live in a place without hue?
When the celestial cerulean should swirl tenderly overhead
the heavy grey covers all instead
I must paint my canvas with the mud on my shoes-
Caked cracking crud that makes up the place I call home
Where the sun never shows
And the wind always blows
And the crow ever crows
And my mind always slows
From the dulling dank smoky relief filling my doped dome
With the seductive delusions that away
             I
                  have
                                       flown.
To a place where marigolds can color my sun
Where the hills with peridot run
And the rivers swirl in the lively dance
             of
                   Sweetest
                                      Spring
who shall not stoop to show her face.
Not in this place.

Where the people lie
Where the innocent cry
As the rivers run dry
And
          inside
                       I die.