In this rusted cage,
That is my mind,
My vision is blurred,
From these wild grey fogs.
How can I complain,
When it's the only color I see,
Besides death?
Determined is the color death,
To swallow me,
Slowly but surely.
Now I'm asking once more,
Is it possible for the fogs,
To not become my blue sky?
This cage is distorting the blues I once knew,
Leaving no choice,
But for grey fogs to be my favorite color.
When non-existence's color draws so near.
- Author: wiltedlock ( Offline)
- Published: May 8th, 2023 06:09
- Category: Sad
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: wiltedlock
Comments2
unique imagery, well written
thanks for sharing
Definitely a theme running tonight.
My mind is usually foggy this time of day!
May the sky turn blue for you.
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