…Rainbows in the Dust. Her hands, sift through the sanded confections, grasping for colored

connections that winded storms have covered in mistrust.

There is no Rain.

There is no Moisture.

There are no drops of wetness.

Only fine microscopic grains, that sit as

lonely

atonement dried by time but she never complains,

She forgives the

forgetness.

(She lives as Technicolor)

Dreaming in a black and white world that spins nothing more than Shades gray.

Her defenses and her senses is her crutch, she tastes the untouched smells the odor of wasted away.

(she sees pure) never can hate can hold her…

By Terry Dailey