grey on grey



         dry cliché,

I     wouldn’t  waste my       time. 


   Why pick up weeds that grow     in clumps

         when there  are such sweet columbine…

      She stands  alone    she’s grey,    now white


              bending  hollow   in    the fog

                  her face is plain, her heart  it drips  her emotions 


                                           seem clogged.

She    tries   to grasp for more but isn't quite  

                            that strong

                                 In a flick of mercy

                                        she’s here,              then Gone. 

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