Our senses paint
the colourless colours
of our reality
on a canvas.

Artists promiscously sell
their own paint for paper,
terrified of the real colour
paperless reality brings.

Like a drained soul
we press against the parchment,
leaving our last breath
as an imprint
to be sold for profit,
only benefitting the fallen
who are marching
aimlessly in pursuit
of what their riches can buy.

Longing for the one paper
to fill the void
that no paper can fill,
the one colour
to fill the colourless void,
not realising they already
emit white,
if they look beyond the paper.