Orange

His eyes are ruined.
Bloodshot, strained, unfocused.
They have forgotten all colours.
All colours bar orange.
The never ending orange.
His chest heaves with the effort of moving.
His lungs creak.
They are bellows, leathery and stiff.
His lips are cracked, splitting.
They are mud, scarred by the heat.
His skin is flaked, dead.
Dried out paint on a crumbling wall.
His feet drag through the orange.
Not footprints, but furrows.
This crop will not grow.
The harvest will never come.

His eyes widen.
His furrows deepen.
His bellows creak and groan.
He is felled.
A lone tree, far from home.

The orange is gone.
There is green.
Red.
Purple.
Yellow.
And blue.
Sweet, glorious, refreshing blue.
His hands are claws.
They scratch at the blue.
His head lowers.
Blue fills his mouth.
The tide rushes into the cave.
It floods.
It drowns.

There is orange.

Orange.

The.
Never.
Ending.

Orange.