Now greyscale is the shade of clouds o’er light
obscuring the colors of horizon in sight
the rays once spread focused on solely a spot
from whence no wrong can be differed from right.

Whilst sodden down minds and beaten hearts lay
they sway in the light wind of day
no psalms, no thoughts, no exchanges to pay
Yet a sorrowful cry that whittles so slow
that flakes of gold and white bud have no-say
and leave body and heart with nary a way
to bring back their laurels and chorus
for the grey tied in-side hath naught more--

And dreams are filled with memories so few
Paintings of gold that have lost their hue
Feathers ruffle and wave, ride low under leaf
Black wings and dry nest bring arms take siege
but scattered reflections do not shelter make.
The wind blows; but there is naught left to take
cry they who mimic hath all still to do.

Nary are the words, passionate in meaning
A heightened gale, an open sail; free?-- no, but knotted
and thus the white and the black are cloaked from seeing.
They that have become nothing but wisps of dull smoke
slip silent through our yearning fingers
and memories of cold and dark are all the mind doth bespoke.

The details fade away one by one
left an empty frame
for life itself is grey until the right comes along
and gives it a brand-new hue, never the past same;
But that day is rare, whilst the usual:
It is only an illusion, a self-constructed delusion
Created by hope; they deny, but
Hope is forever greyscale
and her companion, Regret, is just-- there-- wavering steam
until the day passes and her eyes
gleam from behind
offering a deep sigh with a gaze lost yet focused
a lonely figure among the wildflowers; she cries
a Visit to a place with genesis long before
the heavens’ seam burned cold and blue
hands brush away the mist to kiss the early dew
Ears turned to the twittering of the cloak’d paroquets
They muse of a tired existence
in a language no longer decipherable to the mind
as twisted as the vines of penance wrapped around your hands

The water sings--oh!-- everything is singing
but his voice is hoarse
and the melody a little-- just the slightest- bitter
The faintest fragrance, so light that it
ought not have been smelled
remains.