In a world once muted, sepia-toned and grey,
Your vibrant canvas painted a brighter day.
A riot of colors, a symphony of sound,
Chaos and order, beautifully bound.

Your world, a sanctuary, a passion's flame,
Each brushstroke a story, a heartfelt claim.
Colors reflecting your soul's desire,
A window to your thoughts, a burning fire.

More than just colors, a language untold,
Silent spaces captured, a story bold.
The tension before the spark ignites,
Electricity humming, a sweet delight.

A monochrome existence, dull and plain,
Your technicolor world, a joyful strain.
Hues and shades, a perfect blend,
A world transformed, a loving friend.

Emotions poured, a canvas bare,
Dreams and fears, a loving pair.
A puzzle to solve, a story to tell,
Confessions revealed, a magic spell.

Desires and ambitions, a hidden art,
Deepest thoughts, a loving start.
Intricate patterns, a swirling maze,
Stories waiting, in endless days.

Delving deeper, a new sight,
Eyes opened wide, a guiding light.
A world transformed, a vibrant hue,
A colorful mosaic, me and you.

Years carry less, a foundation strong,
Youthful audacity, a righting wrong.
Irony stings, a sweet surprise,
An old man captivated, beneath his eyes.

Limitations fall, a newfound grace,
Endless possibility, a loving space.
Art, a way of life, a guiding hand,
New eyes to see, across the land.

A sleepwalker, drifting through the night,
Now wide awake, a shining light.
Brushstrokes speak, a silent plea,
Untold stories, wild and free.

Drawn into the depths, a loving art,
Swirl of colors, a beating heart.
The world through your eyes, a different view,
Contrasts and contradictions, ever new.

A mirror reflecting, a soul laid bare,
Confronting fears, a loving care.
Self-discovery, a journey's start,
Liberation and transformation, a loving art.

A kindred spirit, a fellow friend,
Artistic journey, without end.
Exploring boundaries, a daring flight,
A place to belong, a guiding light.

Unleashing colors, a wild display,
A world transformed, a brighter day.
A masterpiece, a loving art,
A bond that unites, a loving start.

Forever changed, a new-found grace,
A part of something, a loving space.
A world alive, with possibility,
Eternally grateful, me and thee

I look... empty, gray
and before that, crowds were peeked in

Everyone laughs, smiles
and my empty painting presses me against the wall without a moment's thought

I see someone painting my picture frames
With a different brush than the grave, the altar

He paints with words, good deeds
The image becomes something different from the gray and half-world reverie

He is a painter, a painter of my life's painting.

I went outside to look at the meteor shower

The sky was grey and foggy
The air was damp and cold

I tried to see the falling stars
But could only see the grey white sky

I wonder how many showers I’ve missed because of a stormy sky

I wonder how many falling stars I could’ve wished on

From a window up high
I can hear the rain
Drumming down
Grey
Sloshing through streets and
Ruining leather shoes  

Children scream in delight
And scatter
Running with their school bags or jackets
Up over their heads
Some not even bothering
No umbrellas
Revelling in their drenched clothes
Water dripping down their noses

And I think about how
It happens one day -
You start to step over puddles
Instead of jumping in them

It’s not the dank, damp, grey days.
It’s not the drizzle that seeps through the seams of my coat.
It’s not the dark mornings.
It’s not the dark evenings.

It’s the crisp air of an early morning frost.
It’s the spiders’ webs glistening with frozen dew.
It’s the shades and hues as the leaves turn golden.
It’s the peace and quiet as nature settles down for her long sleep.

If I cry out to a gaze of boisterous
watchers, as every star falling out of the
sky, —I’d too, feel so out of place. I would
appear, a feast to Time, by just a second’s graze.

Truly startled at how short a life is;
even by the Greener pastures we so
meaninglessly hunt after; do know
full well, all the grass that grows so
promising; will all eventually be grazed.

And perhaps the purple envy I had
for the freedom’s worth knitted into
the sky, would all at last turn so grey,

And so, I would cry a river’s mountain,
upon knowing how much time I spent,
chasing after meaningless things in all my days.

For the cares of the world offers
only a moment’s praise,

Till I’m of course consumed, with finding
the reasoning to clarify such a craze—
I’d have no answer to my Creator’s name;
and I’d be so ashamed.

is my wish what i really want?
are your kisses really that soft or are my memories unreliable
all this time i was unviable but now the tides changed
if the overcast can fade then so can the return of the grey
my impressionable mind molded by stoic time
the inescapable vines consume my innate drive