Grey
The wind grows more inpatient as it litters the city streets with a kaleidoscope of colored leaves.
A precursor to the angry winter. I hope I have a car by then. A little place to sleep...
Hope this hole heals soon.
Would hate the winter wind to whistle through me. The swirling, grey skies beckon and call me to look up into the skyline.
I hide in a sarcophagus of hatred and despair.
I tiptoe upon the neatly placed eggshells, crushing them with a delightful, loud crunch.
Sitting outside...
Tobacco smoke thick in the air...
Waiting until it's grey, no more...
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