One.

Among the parade of dreary mottled grey, there was a one:
a one constantly marginalised and isolated.
One would tread on his trunk as he ran.
one would seek social guidance and education
but would instead be gifted with social outcast and hatred.
He forever trod on his trunk whilst running.

Left far too far to flee
the rapid, ripping wave
of shimmering gold
and blinding, rigid white

he was torn;
ripped;
cut;
clawed;
but the rest of them flew far far forward to fathom
the frigid nature of nature.
And heart aching, baking in the sun
a one survived, within mere seconds of blessed life.

What was once a grey
was now an eye soaring
sharp
dangerous
painful
deep, deep
lustful
red.

A one lay there.

He lay.

Waiting  

for

nature

to

allow

permanent

infinite

sustenance:

one final relief.

That day, a one day
a one died:
scared;
confused;
lost.

The rest of the ones shuffled safely
to sustain a sufficient existence.
None mourned or minded of mourning
the morning after the dawning death.

They forever lost a damaged one
and in return
were gifted with a flawless zero.