The dusty gray of me
Resides between the pages
Of books that come before
And devoured
Or unread and ignored
On shelves as yet unreached
The gray of clouds
Stormy and ripe with malcontent
Or wispy tattered and bereft
The gray of the pencil
Shunned for lack of vibrancy
Too subtle too obtuse
The gray of a horse
Robbed of dapples
Hobbled by age and misuse
The gray of eyes
That have seen too much or too little
That twinkle cry or plead
Uniquely me
The gray of spaces in between
The areas obscured
Places of mystery and doubt
Areas to hide
Or areas to flout
What would we be
Minus that area
That space
That haven
In which to flee
To thrive
To survive
To be
The dusty gray of me
Unique and vital
Allowing those more vivid
More vibrant
To shine


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