It's Still Life

The Truth about Grey (Accentual Verse)

This is no cleansing
cold of the year.
This is winter’s rot,
and rain that dulls.

The air tastes sour
with giving-up things;
death’s slow hand
laid on the shoulder.

Colour drains out:
stone’s grey remains,
black bark dripping,
green worn to bruise.

Even the light
is tired cloth,
a faded sheet
thrown over days.

This is Bleak.
I breathe it in.
I wait not sun
but warmth recalled,

a small, hard ember
in all this grey.

---

The Truth about Grey (Long Form)

This is not a cleansing cold.
This is winter’s decay,
a drizzle that never quenches,
only dampens.

The air is sour
with the taste of things
that have given up.
It is death’s hand,
not swift,
but a slow, grey chill
laid upon the shoulder.

Colour has leached from the land,
leaving only the grey of stone,
the black of wet bark,
the dull green of surrender.

Even the light feels thin
and tired;
a faded sheet
thrown over a forgotten chair.

This is the Bleak.
And I am in it.
And I am waiting
not for sudden sun,
but for the memory of warmth.

I will be a small, stubborn ember
in the heart
of all this grey.

---

Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.