Commentary and Philosophy Poetry posted June 29, 2019


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Man's modern struggle.

The Gray

by Clockwise

I've grown accustomed to the gray--
those crooked strands,
and wild strays,
plucked with the hands
now interlaced,
to say a prayer,
and hide her face.
'Tis both our shame,
but my disgrace,
and all the same
inside the gray.

I've grown accustomed to the gray--
the in-between
of night and day.
From what I've seen,
to what you say,
it's where we've been,
that makes me stay.
So just say 'when,'
and I'll obey--
To live and die
inside the gray.

I've grown accustomed to the gray--
of dreary skies,
and milky ways.
The black pastels
of distant stars,
whose light foretells
this life of ours--
a flame that dies,
then fades away,
like silent yawns
inside the gray.

I've grown accustomed to the gray,
but still I'm haunted
by the white.
The blowing snow
and blinding light
which whispers low,
"You know I'm right."
It numbs the skin
then runs away,
to revel in
its own cliche.

I've grown accustomed to the gray,
but still I'm taunted
by the night.
The shadows fold
into false light
of pornos sold
as sacred rites.
Inside my home,
its here to stay--
the Devil's own
dark cabaret.

"She'll never know,"
so says the gray.



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