Happy in your work
Are there memories of movies that stay with the dead?
cutting across crimson velvet
youth cajoling each other
to keep existential anxiety at bay,
the aged escaping
but not knowing
to or from.
Are there stories in the colors of our walls
that we will never know?
Bright, radiant things,
recessed corners of shadowed lines.
Do these exist?
Did they ever?
Did digital devices kill the poet?
Or just distract him from clarity?
This is a continuation,
but of something we never started.