Gray

The morning speaks to me of smoke and failure
Of tired feet and shoulders stiff with ache;
Of half-dreamed dreams that fade thenĀ 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

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