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Description
A GREY DAY

Music, one of my comforts, muffles my pensive mind.
I stand under a shingled roof, the breeze grazing my feet
Through the low, white-painted railing overlooking the cliffs.
It is a grey day today; the sun has not been seen, and probably will not be seen.

The chill wind blows from the north, moving all in its path.
Palm leaves rocking like long jade fingers in the sky.
The branch of a tree sways gently, its leafless stems following suit,
The blades of grass below lean, the closed mimosa resting from the cold.

Water ripples ceaselessly, in all directions, by wind and water,
Like a stack of transparent feathers, pale light passing through.
To the right, in a sort of lonely mirror world, I look.
A green-tipped stack pokes out of the coast, supported by a frail stone pillar.

I wonder if, as the grey waves strike its base powerfully
The stack will not collapse, for it hangs on to dear life at sea.
And if it were alive, I would pity it, unsheltered from the rain.
I turn back and gaze at the foggy sky, the horizon a grim blur far away.

What is beyond that? The map will say it vaguely, I know,
But beauty cannot be truly admired without being present.
In this day of grey, beyond the horizon there must be some sunshine;
I do not know if it is Nirvana, or if it's because I'm listening to them.

In this grey day, as the drizzle falls endlessly,
I only look and think about what I am missing,
And what I have been missing for the past year.
I promised myself not to go yet, but I find that hard, too hard.

What holds me back: What if the answer is no?

Description
A GREY DAY

Music, one of my comforts, muffles my pensive mind.
I stand under a shingled roof, the breeze grazing my feet
Through the low, white-painted railing overlooking the cliffs.
It is a grey day today; the sun has not been seen, and probably will not be seen.

The chill wind blows from the north, moving all in its path.
Palm leaves rocking like long jade fingers in the sky.
The branch of a tree sways gently, its leafless stems following suit,
The blades of grass below lean, the closed mimosa resting from the cold.

Water ripples ceaselessly, in all directions, by wind and water,
Like a stack of transparent feathers, pale light passing through.
To the right, in a sort of lonely mirror world, I look.
A green-tipped stack pokes out of the coast, supported by a frail stone pillar.

I wonder if, as the grey waves strike its base powerfully
The stack will not collapse, for it hangs on to dear life at sea.
And if it were alive, I would pity it, unsheltered from the rain.
I turn back and gaze at the foggy sky, the horizon a grim blur far away.

What is beyond that? The map will say it vaguely, I know,
But beauty cannot be truly admired without being present.
In this day of grey, beyond the horizon there must be some sunshine;
I do not know if it is Nirvana, or if it's because I'm listening to them.

In this grey day, as the drizzle falls endlessly,
I only look and think about what I am missing,
And what I have been missing for the past year.
I promised myself not to go yet, but I find that hard, too hard.

What holds me back: What if the answer is no?