Feeling blue merits chirps to the sky, but feeling grey forces feelings away from high—a grave gravimetric course to bye.

Blank eyes see outlines, but none of life’s spangled joys of day—essentially, selfing as an every-hour noctambulist knocking lifts away.

Heart’s desert is revered only by those patriots who are numb—to bruising riots patting hopes with pelts—and some.

Hence, sitting—not standing.

Hence, still—not stirred.

Hence, invisible—not defined.