Grey days. They happen.
Hope is a delusion, a stagnant
piece of decaying food. A fantasy.

Mirrors are emptied of glare,
and so I sit like a vessel
waiting for the next pill.

Grey heart. It pulls and tugs
with uneasiness as it beats
towards the next stage.

Like marching feet, the
dim pounding is advancing
towards unfortunate results.

Glasses on. Eyes open.
Twisting this or that
possibility in the head.

Looking backwards does
not convince, at all, of the
stability of what is forward.

Grey days. They happen.
Hope is a delusion, a stagnant
piece of decaying food. A fantasy.