Grey
Grey,
Is the colour,
That follows me.
A trail in the rain
When you walk behind.
But ahead it gathers
Muted and stiff,
I do not feel the
Red on white of pain,
Not the sharp arrow,
The galloping horse, the red eye.
I am the dull thump of boots,
Steady, then petering out,
Dropping off the edge
And effacing the self.
No will of my own. No will of my own.
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