It's funny.
My eyes see color but my mind sees grey.
It's always been that way: the colors trying to burst through my retinas...
And failing.
Constantly, terribly, horribly
Failing.
The grey glass is glazed, glued fast eighteen years,
And my mind is used to the gloom.
The lights' vibrancy bounced off it at every turn...
And the lens grew dimmer.
Once the light circulation within is cut off,
The external lights may very well not exist.
So now
The world sits,
Awash in neutral hues.
YOU ARE READING
The Scraps of A Song: An Anthology.
PoetryPoetry spanning topics from love to pain, to addiction, to borderline insanity, to romanticism..in a disorder so strange it becomes an order all its own... The Pieces of Her, The Scraps of A Song.
