I have never heard grey more grey
then the words which you say to me so
condescendingly.
Never endingly.
Black and white means naught
in a world of (k)nots and (flattened) cans.
And dressed up in blue, you’re always beautiful.
But crude and **** we stand in the sun;
every pockmark illuminated, tungsten bright.
The light of night to never shine again against
the delicate steel door that closes like your hand
around the flitting, panicked moth.
Magnesium smiles and pain pill duplicity,
the simplicity of a (remote) controlled world.
I am trapped between the clean street signs
and the signs of a dead language.
Where is the line of your back and what
is the time?
Have I lost the only things that
made me sigh with relief?
(Who is the real thief?)