The future is not orange.
It's the colour of faded newspapers,
Dying embers, Buttery moonscapes and
Concrete scars.
It reeks of chip shop oil and skidmarked tattoos.
of Rotting flesh and accelerant
fumes.
The future comes with arms outstreched,
with daggers in your back.
with comforting palms.
The future tastes of soft toys, lost in time,
of thick cut white with butter
of goat.
It tastes of blessings once before.
and with luck, tastes once more.