Grey is not a colour, it is a state of being: When arms cannot reach far enough And cold is not dry enough; When everything tightens around But there is nothing left to hold you; When you are left naked in the night alone And the lights are dark as they pass you by With a rhythmic hum that numbs you; When sleep is all around but you cannot find it within. Cold air blows in your face from nowhere But it means nothing. You stop somewhere to have a smoke And can't be bothered to light it Because you can't remember why you should. Somewhere you think there was a reason But you do not know what it was Because it is numb and there is nothing left to say.
Copyright July 16, 2010 by Timothy Emil Birch
I wrote this on the greyhound coming home - by the way, I don't smoke, but I used to ... thought I should meantion that.