The world has changed, the colours run
and merge to ghostly grey.
My love is dead, my life is done
what is there now to say?
All colour washed up, worn out, wan
no rainbows in the sky.

My world is grey, there is no fun
the colours once so gay,
are dead and buried, bleached.  As one
their hues are leached away.
I see no blues, no reds, nor green
only a Greybow to be seen.

A Greybow is not brilliant;
its colours start with black:
then go through grey to white.
They show just how we feel when sad,
and straddle day and night.

Black, morphs to Leaden colour
and then to vapid Grey;
then Ash, then colour-lacking White
brings on the end of day.

Black is the night despairing,
its deadly, dying death
leaching life from everyone,
taking their last breath.

Leaden is the sky above
when thunderstorms are due
cannot be transmuted,
and is heavy soft and true.

A Greybow is not brilliant;
its colours start with black:
then go through grey to white.
They show just how we feel when sad,
and straddle day and night.

Grey is indeterminate
and lies 'twixt back and white;
neither here and neither there,
nor colourful nor bright.

Ash reflects the residue
of fire when it's old,
the flames have died back to the ground,
the embers have gone cold.

A Greybow is not brilliant;
its colours start with black:
then go through grey to white.
They show just how we feel when sad,
and straddle day and night.

White is the shining, smiling, glowing,
brightness of a star,
lighting up the darkest night
to show us who we are.

But Black is the night despairing,
its deadly dying breath;
leaches life from everyone,
taking their last breath

A Greybow is not brilliant;
its colours start with black:
then go through grey to white.
They show just how we feel when sad,
and straddle day and night.

I see only a Greybow
no colours now and
...so
...it
...must
...end.