The morning was blue.
Maybe it was the room.
A will to resume overcome by what looms.
A feeling.
It's no use, the sun knows we're fading.
Gasping.
And trading pain for distraction.
A bail out.
But beneath the cancerous commerce lives the unfelt,
the un-dealt with speculation: that my vessel is a flawed innovation;
that frightened children may have found a moment's passion
and left us with moods as fickle as fashion.
These tangled wires clash and blur the line
between my mind and fine,
So unless we redefine unrefined, life will continue in kind
as long as my time in this queue to resign.
Then, as my life hangs it’s warped canvas
on a world of new advancements
awakened in me: the chance it’s… just us.
A planet that's born afraid. Sold lemonade,
and not shown how it's made.
Crawling wave after wave, and gasping "be brave!"
If they saw us all frayed, with pounding hearts swaying to the drum of the wave.
If they saw it this way, maybe the brave would have stayed.
The morning was blue, but I heard it can change
We’re only human, after all—manmade.
Moulding and shaping a future to paint
Imagine what shades we could see if we wait.
This morning was blue, but the afternoon was purple.
A shade I have never seen.
Made me not want to blink, and I think you'd like it more.
The lore was true, it does get brighter than the morning that was blue.
A poem by Kassima, CloudyApples - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rz5b3Tq5aFM