The Grey People

114

 

The grey people live their lives

 behind grey walls

eating their colorless food

passing through featureless streets

wraithlike

touching nobody

 touching nothing that would spark

windows merely reflect an outline

a shade

nothing of substance

grey skies, grey clothes, grey spirits

memories of the past fading, rubbed away

 of the days

when the palette splattered tint everywhere

like  an overripe plum

and color sang through their world

 

 

 

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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