It sure is such a rarity
To have any kind of clarity
In this pall we’re covered with - no verity
Grey is not lit with any prosperity
Only shroud covered lands all in a form of familiarity
Knowing what is covered, but cannot see it’s true identity
Shadows cast through the day of skies so cloudy
A wet mist reminds - there is no remedy
Sunshine does not peek or wink through an atmosphere so gloomy
Dark grey grows over the land walked by one in singularity
Unfortunately, having clarity is such a rarity, a sad insincerity..

In the cold, dark
        of January,
         I remembered
              you
        the most.
  As the chill
      snapped bones
              like branches,
     as the afternoons
   bathed themselves
in gray,
     as the birds
and the backs
      shook,
so did my lips
   around your name.
I'm so happy
     January is almost
over now.

White light from the street lamps shone in from the blinded window.
Everything was grey.
The cold, painted brick wall was all I had.
I held my hand against it as I laid facing on the cheap bed.
I had never felt silence like this.
Grey always felt good.
It felt good in my hand.
It felt good on my skin.
It felt good in my eyes.
I could see nothing else.
The cold brick was all I had and all I wanted.
It was the only moment of neutrality in the loud world around me,
the loud pain inside me.
I thought I would never see color again,
and I was realized.
I did not move.
I sank into the conformity of the moment.
I wasn’t unwanted.
The grey did not care.
It held me in it’s arms and accepted me as I was.
It’s gift to me was the cold brick wall.
The only thing that felt real.
It did not pulse.
It did not live.
It was grey.
I wanted to be grey.
I offered my hand to the wall,
but the grey did not accept me.
It was just there for a visit.
It told me it would come back for me.
I will wait for the wall again.

So alluring,
the way the dark spreads itself
across a sea of shining stars
and makes us forget the infinities we haven’t seen.
I question myself
and I think about how the starlight we see
is a gift from centuries ago.
I’m alive in the dark.
I’m lethargic in the light.
And yet the darkest corners of my imagination
are the places I dread the most.

I’m alone in the light.
I’m a force in the dark.
My wrists tremble at the thought of
another night of telling stories
with ambiguous intent
and metaphors that strike my knees -
bow to the dark -
and yet I’m the only fool who reads my words.

The gift of the dark
is the great balance of life;
when time is stuck in one end of the dichotomy,
these little spots of grey pour out over the blue in my eyes.

And as the colors are muffled
like the road workers
covering up an artist’s graffiti,
I begin to understand why there’s two sides to a coin.

I’m alive in the dark,
tired in the light,
and the shadows of the night have become my favorite audience.

Sunflowers reach,
Up to the skies,
My experience is sad,
And so are your eyes
A spirit is evil,
And so is your smile.
don't you leave
stay for awhile.

No more screaming, no more voices
In the empty land of wasted stories.
A place of madness and lost faith
But look at it the right way
And it’s astonishingly great.

A null tricky game, planned, well played,
You’d better keep watching before it vanishes anyway.
But perhaps it’s too late, in this blurry night
Maybe too early to see the bright light.

Just a second of hope, a last broken prayer
To remind you in this game, you were a good player.
Cause there are no winners
No losers, no glory
In the not too far land of wasted stories.

Blue skies are optimistic,
even when days are cold

Grey skies are oppressive;
they weigh heavy on the soul.

You are the rainbow, living in disguise
In shades of grey, between black and white.

When you shine through me,
It disperses all colors of you,
Like I am the prism waiting for you.

You see, not all can see
How pretty you are from within,
And all I do is stand amazed
By colors of you in all shades but grey.