Dark cloudy gray day
Coolness to the air
Dankness permeates
Birds on the roof eating
Chirping sounds in the air
Creates stillness and quiet
A cat cozied up sleeping
Looks like rain is possible
Good day for coffee or tea
Inside
Safe and warm
Offers needed respite
Doing quiet things
It offers comfort

Roses can be White
Yellow or shades of Pink
But the Red are more expensive
Or so florists like to think

The seeds look very similar
Whenever you plant your borders
But once they show their truer form
It's too late to change your order

You can hear them scream at night,
the men, locked in,
over at the hate factory.

It's a kind of purgatory.
A winter time
for the mind.

No light gets in.
No love either.
But you can see it all below
through the bars
on the window.

To us as gifts were
given 12 metal keys
the rustiest
is forgiveness
it's grace got blessed
by the giver of life.

The ideal tyranny, some have said,
to me, is the Logos of John,
as revealed on Patmos,

or it is if we agree, if I tell you thus and so,
from my crouching low pose,

as the law revived by Murphy proves.

Aiming at nothing and hitting it,
proves nothing.

Grey bound
Green leaves
Grandpa's dream
Grandma's crown.

I am not your favourite person
it is not right, you know nothing about me
I am a closed book,
don't open me to read,
the empty pages are not yours to fill,
I am normal, don't make me feel bad
It is exceptional, the part you expect me to fill still,
But I am my own person,
Keying my destiny to be apart.