“Perfect Gray”

I spent all my time today

searching for the perfect gray

that says what I want to say

—enfolds me in every way

—doesn’t cry “come out and play,”

—keeps the wicked world at bay,

—doesn’t see the need to pray.

 

Bones of concrete turn to clay

sinking in the perfect gray,

a blood-warm bath ends the day

while candle-lit shadows play.

 

Time appears to hold no sway

though clocks still tick-tock away

hours pile on the day and

flesh still slides toward decay.

 

Thoughts get slow —a drunkard’s sway—

from wine coloured perfect gray.

Yet all is clear in a way

on roads paved in perfect gray—

no turns, traffic —all one-way—

cruise-controlled, no tolls to pay.

 

Eyes of lead keep dawn at bay,

seasoned sheets welcome my stay.

 

Think I’ll spend another day

searching for the perfect gray.

Sign The Guestbook