It is the untouched books on the shelf
That bother me the most.
Their pages yearn to betray a world
Fraught with color.
There are those that would not see it that way.
They know the truth of the matter is so bright to so many
That perhaps a black and white photograph
Will suffice for a veritable Sistine Chapel.
Though their images churn in my mind,
Devoid sometimes of the enlightenment of
red
green
blue
I am more fearful of the fact that
gray
grayer
grayest...
Now seems closer to the right answer
Than all the libraries of every corner
Of every single
fucking
college town.
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