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The Bleak Gray Mist
A bleak gray mist slowly descends
slays all the color in the land.
Of melancholy it portends.
The slow trickle of hourglass sand
shows seconds turn to endless days
each one a moment of self-doubt
and ever-deepening malaise;
as loathing builds its own redoubt.
The bleak gray mist will darker grow
each time it creeps up to attack;
it was, and will be always so
until there only will be black.
Copyright ©
Terry Miller
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