The morning speaks to me of smoke and failure
Of tired feet and shoulders stiff with ache;
Of half-dreamed dreams that fade then out of being
Of practiced tension, thirst one cannot slake;

The morning speaks to me of vague acceptance
Of broken life, of lies, and now, ennui —
Of people who have passed into remembrance
Of everything that was, or soon
Won’t be

One thought on “Gray

Leave a Reply