All I See is Grey

Wet paint drips in gravity's wake,

tumbling to the floor like teardrops.

An empty canvas stands before me mockingly,

its white glow reflective on my cheek.

The palette is stained in a wash of previous procurement,

where memories and oozing colour once met with inspiring curiosity.

My fingers tremble with age

My eyes blurred with constant disappointment as reality washes over me like harsh wind over fine sand

The ocean used to be so blue

The mountains once peaked with a dancing white glow

But only the grey dullness of the rock remains

All I see is grey.

The bristles get to within a hair's reach of the barren landscape

The color dripping so brightly, but missing its target.

Hope is a word best described in colour,

mixed in the blue skies of distant memory,

overlapped with the green grass of tender care,

basking in the warm streaks of a yellow sun.

But all I see is grey.

Black fades to shadow on a palettes dream

The only color left now hanging on the walls in the form of dusty masterpieces

Each one a symbol of rising from your knees every time the inevitable gust makes a pass

Every pattern its own, matching that of unique and chaotic turbulence.

And when colour is trapped within, beating like a heart ripped into a million pieces

begging to flow outward from the brush into the world it wants to be a part of,

all that can be done is to wait,

staring blankly into a canvas that mirrors the same.

Wet paint dripping in gravity's wake,

tumbling to the floor with teardrops,

a colourful masterpiece replaced by a white canvas

blending with the solitude of void-like inspiration.

The palette is full, each color of the rainbow screaming to take its place

but it doesn't matter.

The world has already made it's peace.

And all I see is Grey.