I sit alone in this garden of many colors,
Flowers bloom beautifully in this warm spring,
Seen through these eyes of mine, it grows duller and duller,
I cast my eyes down, feeling a shamed sting.

This breathtaking scene frustrated with me,
I crept to the center of these dense woodlands,
Moving beneath an ancient blue oak tree,
Grey still all around me, I sat with my head in my hands.

Minutes birthed hours.
Hours birthed days.
Days birthed weeks.
Weeks birthed eternity.

I know not how long I remained under that oak,
But I knew the cascading emotions within would not calm,
I rose to my knees, conjuring up some false hope,
Doing anything that I could to make myself carry on.

I found myself yearning for the poison once again,
I found my soul pleading and begging for another taste,
I felt my very ashes being ground against the grain,
As I locked myself away in solitude, my mind ever on that waste.

Life feels so very grey now,
Every color faded and old,
Crawling on by somehow,
With this heart still ice cold.

Here I still am, and here I will remain,
I wait for my live-giving spark to return,
Praying for an end to this ceaseless hurt and pain,
Praying for the singular want I still yearn.

Color to coat this grey slate.