Gray

The voice of the gray morning…

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

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

One thought on “Gray”

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