Smoke morning air the color of
Sun soaked pavement on dead highways.
Deep green and burnt brown,
The only lasting shades throughout
A bleak and saturated winter.
A Lincoln prominence on every
Young man's face. Obscure is trend
Is stale in an hour
Is commonplace.
So informed by low-lit faces in
Every corner of every building.
Little glowing faces searching
For constant connection,
Not in the face before them.
Feels so hollow.
Seems so sad. Like this dreary
Morning I've awaken to,
Buried in my own futile device.