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.