Chamaeleonidae

I am the murderer who heard your cry,
while my tyres rode on, tearing you,
was it plain anguish I heard,
of the dearth of the moments in your life?

Did I distort the kaleidoscope of your disguise?
Oh Chameleon, what colour did you choose to adorn death?
Was it plain blood red
or that black hole of hopeless hope
or the greys that decays the brightest nature?

Forgive me so,
for growing into someone with unwarranted beliefs
that, all other are insignificant beings,
when actually handicapped by an additional fifth sense,
while you had as much life in you as me,
maybe even more colours my canvas ever knew.

While we paved more roads, and forced you into oblivion,
while we called you pests, and cut more trees, guiltless.
And made you live in our cemented lives,
Did you choose that dark grey of the road to disguise death?

I am the murderer who heard your cry,
my tyres rode on, tearing you.
Frost bitten anguish I heard,
of the dearth of the moments in your life.