Cancelled.

We've substituted our sweetener with a dash of cancel in our morning coffee.

Our discourse?

Snippets of conversations, words- cut short;

Akin to clipping flowers,

Only less beautiful,

Less gentle.

And, every time a note forms in someone's throat

Someone, a bit different, 

or, maybe, just a make-believe difference;

The dash of the cancellation comes gushing, rushing,

Before the notes even verbalize into a full word, a sentence.

And, we go in circles trying to convince,

As if we are humans out of black and white TV,

where you either belong here or there;

In deciding the camps,

We often forget the grey, 

The grey that makes a larger chunk of this blue dot;

The grey that defines our lives,

And, fosters our ability to listen, 

without a need for the dash.