A man wakes up, and the day is grey;
the sky is grey, his eyes are grey, his hair is grey,
his humor fits his color.
-
He puts a grey sweater.
Sigh! Time is my enemy.
Productivity, reactivity, will of fire.
Any kind of desire.
But no, it's a grey day.
One of the senseless days.
-
We pick up a memory,
a past where more colors used to be seen.
Yet kisses arrive like thrown knives,
reminding us of other lives
we rather be living in this moment,
we rather be painting in other colors.
Yet, these moments are gone
it feels like until eternity.
It feels like now is all downhill.
It hurts.
-
The man is scared.
Will these memories ever be good again?
Will colors ever appear the same way?
He doesn't know.
He doesn't know.
But he wants it to be true someday.
He needs it to be true someday.
