Abstract Subtraction

The sky echoes a lonely dribble of orange paint
With nothing but large black shadows contorting it
Into a modern abstract artist’s delight
But the threads of attachment hang from each limb
And they don’t have it inside their hearts to change it
Scissors couldn’t fix anything
And not even god can change this imperfect masterpiece
That’s left for only a child to take in their young eyes
Eyes that are half open so that they can deny what they don’t want to see
That’s how it should be.