None of my plants will grow.

I'm saving up
an orchard
of yellows,
and reds,
and blues,
except it's too
cold for
anything to
grow.

This city
is dead
but I'll keep
on moving
as long as my feet
will carry me
home.

The lottery
hasn't been won
yet because
my foot
is stuck in the door
(halfway between)
hope and despair,
(halfway between)
love and fear,
(halfway between)
input and output,
isn't that where
the pleasure
lies?

The soil
is dry and
nothing will grow
no blacks,
or greys,
or golds.

My pockets
are empty
but I'll keep
on moving
as long as my feet
will carry
me.