Yellow Day. Yellow Note.
Strips of grey plastered the blue.
No spot escaped through.
No light escaped through.
The grey world began,
its slow, plodding walk.
The grey people forgot slow
and steady the presence of colour.
They looked at grey all day and then as all eventual, inevitable, eternally smirking beings,
Grey happened to each of them.
Their memories routinely and systematically leaked of colour,
rancid Yellow met at the drain.
When will you whirl me again?
Grey sat back into plump, plush cushions;
the finest whiskey, a glass at his hand.
the finest marijuana, a spliff he smoked.
How dare he live a life so lush when he denies everything bright
to those poor and ignorant.
Wait. Halt. My eyes caught a movement.
It seemed. No. How they lie but can it be,
that even the lightest Grey can bear no match to that bit,
that barest it of light I chanced upon to see.
Could you be that bit, that new, that special for me?