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Jul 2010
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.
Written by
Timothy Emil Birch
713
   rainydaysunday and M P Hill
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