How strange it is
When imagination leaves you
It’s not the only thing that goes
Your experience drops, too
How strange it is
To see the world
In a shade of grey
Color seems furled
How strange it is
To cry, without any ire
Or, to go for a walk
And start a colorless fire
How strange it is
To write an account
Of the way I’ve lived
Darkness will surmount
There’s nothing to write here
Every poet says
There seems to be no color
How strange it is