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Subtle Shades Of Grey
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A flickering of thought, so hesitant,
embraces my soul as I anticipate the
glowing of a sun filled day. In truth,
I am beckoned by my inner voices
to fulfill the recollections of yesterday.
Those dropping, shackled images of
photographs burnt by their own decay.
Turning inwards becomes a situation
of pretended indifference to the world.
And yet, with scent of flowers mingled
with perspiration, I awake myself to
subtle shades of grey. These will define
the contour of the grave, for in dying
to others I realize only myself I find.
I used to wander in gardens of mud
where flowers were trampled underfoot.
Strong images of dashing feet which
ran like fragrant enemies in the dirt.
Desolation is not an answer, and so
I travel forward to other muddied paths
where I might let my transformation grow.
I hear a voice.
It is not mine.
I cannot tell who it belongs to.
Screaming.
Rage within rage.
Despondent sounds.
I hear a voice.
It is the sound of the past dying.
