Where light crumbles,
Fragments into color,
And cascades into an image.
Like old photographs,
On the blue.

In the greenery, where we sat,
There was a large pine.
The three of us sat,
At the table beneath it.
We discuss poverty and social dynamics,
Over tea, like were friends,
Knowing all the trill,
Of lads competing.

Keeping us…
For a shot.
That type of shot,
Where the bullet doesn’t hurt,
And,
The sound doesn’t frighten.
A casual spring breeze,
As it washes trough,
On this lazy afternoon.

Where light crumbles,
Fragments into color,
And cascades into an image.
Like old photographs,
On the blue.