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It is the colour of my ink.
But wait, ink is of different colours too.
It is the clouds, that softly hover.
It is a wine-stained glass,
could be unstained too, I don't really know.
It is not knowing entirely,
yet knowing bits and pieces,
not enough to discern the picture.
It is a silent sound,
or a sunny, sorrowful song.
A tired melody, old, not too strong.
It's a happy tragedy,
if there ever should exist one.
It's a sad romance,
fulfilling, shattering.
It is the sky,
beautiful, but untouched.
It is the dance of my quill,
the colour of my skin.
The heat of words falling from my lips!
Or perhaps...
It's none of that.
I could never truly figure.
Is it a sad glow,
or a glowing sadness?
Is it a heavy grief,
or an empty soul?
The truth is, it is just like what we call it,
grey.
Not black, not white,
just grey.
And i shall never truly figure,
how to rightly describe it's hue.
~Sia ❤️
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𝕴𝖓𝖘𝖎𝖕𝖎𝖉 | Poetry
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