In the flights through my head, I find some gray corners,
That yearn and call with no words at all; just silence,
Combing through the tall gray grass, silent whispers -
That have no meaning to scattered dust or the wind.
The wind is listening and speaking all at once,
The dust just following the wind's gestures in awe,
The whispers, oblivious to the world, flowing in echoes...
What's to make what of what? Who of who? And why?
Is there is a single reason why I look up at the sky?
Or is not the chaos enough to explain my givings?
Mere mortal forms and the not so mortal fragments...
Come together and sit under the vast hollow night,
Filling cups with flowing needs, effervescent wants -
Bubbling up and falling over the brim of reality,
The silent whispers are perhaps telling of the dark -
Side of the mortal thoughts and the immortal winds
Hold it against no consequence - neither the dust.
For in all of our mortal vices and all of our deeds,
We have not left untouched any and all of the grays,
But still we have not changed a thing, it is today,
As it was before us and as it shall be much after,
Our hands and feet have crumbled into the dust -
Flowing with the wind - much after we are gone,
The whispers will remain - our only consequence,
We would not have mattered just grayed out...