Where is the beauty in rainbows?
When everything I see is in black and white
With each of my words I kill yet another
Like pieces of stained glass, they are all different
Yet still part of the same window
In the garden of the dying season
The pieces were scattered
Some falling deep beneath the surface
While some laid among the weeds,
Entwined and gasping for air
And all the while I ask myself;
Why do we kill the things we love?
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