Sausage links and
I search for
A shade of blue,
And car alarms of thought,
Conveyer belts eternal,
Hopelessly un-soothing
Everyday is Monday.

But in some form
It must exist,
The blue
On which I so insist.
Conception immaculate,
could it have name, a face-
-

And still I am consumed,
Digested round and around.
Seven lines,
Three stanzas.
And for what?
A shade of blue-
Last vestige of originality.