grey, grey,
all the days
have tumbled grey.
melodies of sweet song
strain to offer themselves
to ears muffled
by what the eye seems
and struggle to lift a heart
grown heavy
by murdered dreams.
faces smile and promise light
behind eyes of
taunting night.
alone amid this icy press
the soul retreats,
until it rattles in its
hollowness.
a shell now,
for the filling,
that appeals to dark
distresses
willing.
a crying thought
that reaches out
to blasphemies
of self~grown doubt;
recoils and shivers
at the touch
of mocking echoes
that wail
throughout.
grey, grey,
all the days
have tumbled grey.
a strength of spirit
once lion-like sound
has trickled
away.
a mind, too quick by half,
than most,
and eyes whose twinkle had
witnessed a host
of comedies and delights;
have seen themselves
run to ground.
that hand, once
so sure and strong,
that what it touched
could not be wrong
is trembling now, and
palsied sere.
refusing to grasp,
contented to fear
those fires that may
or may not
be near.
grey, grey,
all my days
have tumbled grey.
