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.


About viewingcamelot View all posts by viewingcamelot

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