the elephant in the room

is that your mother is dying

from a cancer

and your heart follows the

rain,

down through the gutters

apathy is a warm blanket,

your body is a cold machine,

all around you a million shades

of grey paint pop-culture

pictures that disappear when

you look at them like

all of the fake-stars in the sky

there are few words left for what you see

you put your art in a grey can

and give it a stupid name;

this survival is an encouraged

and repugnant greed

and is the cancer itself

beauty is right behind that elephant.