Silent gray masses oppressively pass us,
Perpetually preceding the storming,
But never enveloped, so nothing develops
Beyond the bleakest warning.
Pallor cannot instigate. Neither heat, nor rain, penetrate
The muted, mobile display.
Nor can thunder threaten to sunder
We who follow gray.
Time advances, but stasis reigns with no joys or pains
To pierce the mist.
The blanket of numb will keep undone
The fetish and the fist.
Yet echoes from the divide rankle inside
Even under sleeping fog.
There’s an impulse to fly, to see a clear sky,
Above our smothering smog.