Grey

Grey

There is nothing to write about.
The mind is cloudy like today,
Eyes unclear and moist like the window panes
Both gaze upon the sunless sky
With thoughts drowned of last night’s gin.
The grey heavens are easier to look at
When there is nothing to write about
except the nothingness prevailing.
An art reliant on time and experience
It laments in fated lethargy.
Dragonflies are mere dragonflies
Hovering on the grey heavens
Flowers plainly flowers
Ignored by the grey heavens
Poets are mere humans
Tired below the grey heavens
And all the things literal
Common, dead, nothing
When there is nothing to write about
except nothingness.