Poetry

Song Without Orange

guitar without strings

wheels of absent fire:
in their strange wake they bestow
color without rhyme

who paints whom when the weather
demands a canvas bender?

imagination:
it flummoxes the cocksure
with vivid questions

what is the color when black
is burned by a livid child?

I am a strange loop:
grasping quill and pondering
the voice of the void