Thick and coarse,
They protrude and stray;
conspiring to form a
shadowy shrowd,
to smother the grey

And overwhelming the ashen,
which presents day to-day;
Lucky I suppose,
with such colourless facade
("Derelique" some might say).

I could strive overtly,
To blend and blind -
Yet why Bother?
When we are but
The same. Skewed line

No one will see -
A perfect guise!
Hidden and conceded,
This is
Our strife.