Colour of flowers

broken down & forgotten,
how did we get to the top
of our ambitions? underneath it all,
a fist that carries all our dead dreams.
No birds to sing the morning song,
this simple humus holds out
its ending towards heaven.
We have gathered everything
in this tiny space so we have no choice
but to pull the tree's sternum
so we can count its rings.
Even this colour doesn't exist here
in these debris growing
out of yellow dreams. This is the progress
we whisper of—a cloud peeping out
of tattered exhausts like clean smoke.
There are more colours than broken
motion beneath all that unnatural pose; more colour than sky.
But first here, the blue.