TECHNICOLOR

We are the unpopular.
Recipients of a spared coin,
pauses, in the industrious day,
hope for the human decay.

Hands locked together
in a human chain.
We are the others
...in Technicolor,
following a simpler way.

More of love,
more, the beloved.
Human and irregular,
imbedded in our molecular,
joined with every breath.

We, the silent rivals of vanity,
until our death, until we rest
with eyes and ears.
the unpopular, counting
the currency of human tears,
when all clarity...
and all sanity has left.