I once looked into the enchanted lake,
an empty figure stared right back,
eyes mysterious and sinister black.
The lake showed me hell,
how could this be me?
I have not a wrong I didn't right,
have not a frown I didn't rectify.
Or so I had weened.
They said the lake never knew of any lies,
she merely replicated the soul's doleful cries.
I looked into the enchanted lake again.
A light so bright shined right back,
as if to counter the former black.
The lake showed me heaven;
but how could this be me?
With my flawed and fractured verses,
and my lips that spoke of curses?
I looked into the enchanted lake once more,
desperate to know what secrets
she could hold.
But this time, I saw not black, not white,
heard not silence, not noise,
but music!
A sunny, sorrowful song.
By and by,
when I held the courage to peep,
I saw my own teary-eyed face,
staring back at me.
I knew at once then,
what the lake had tried to speak.
"Neither are you dark, nor too sweet,
but an eclectic mix of a grey scene.
Neither are you hell, nor are you heaven,
but the line that lies somewhere in between."
YOU ARE READING
Before It Turns Grey
PoetryAnd through all of this, I've just been trying to know who I really am. To come to terms with heartbreak. To bleed, and to cry, and to learn, and to grow. Before It Turns Grey is a journey, more than it is a poetry collection. It is a voyage of gro...
