simon • 4-10-16

in the depths of him are nothing but grey.

there, but not, an empty shell waiting to be

cracked and painted white or black,

bright or beauty, beauty in nothing.

 

only smoke now. fire there. fire out.

barely seconds between. nothing burns.

 

no gust, no breeze. no hurricane. still,

eerie, grey. no whistles or whirlwinds

to knock on his door, to sweep the dust

off the floor. everything is translucent.