Grey

Two owls on my lamp, watching me in the night, in the light of orange that seems, to me, grey.

The eyes that watch me, I think, are black with white spots.

But when the light of orange turns grey, the eyes disappear, and reappear, again and again.

Never a blink, and never do they turn away from me.

It is dark and cold, and the moon refuses to shine.

The streets are empty and dark, for the orange street lights seem grey to me.

It has been grey for seven nights.

I have been grey for seven nights.

Waiting for the moon every night, I decide to not look at the sun.

For the sun is bright, brighter than the moon.

Bright yellow it is, a shade lighter than orange;

I fear it may turn darker, darker into grey, into a black that will contain me.

So I decide to stay inside, in the four walls, and a short passage.

I do not particularly like watching the walls, so I just look around.

My eyes fall on the eyes, of the two owls on my lamp, with their black eyes with white spots.

And I see them in grey, disappearing and reappearing, again and again.

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Seasons to Know

I have spent days in summer, unsure of what I was doing. I have walked miles on the hills and the plains, exploring boundaries and dimensions, all in my mind, much of it seen through my eyes.`

I had spent restless hours, cursing my existence, when it collided with others. Oh! Where will all of this lead to?

Unsure of what I was to see, I moved ahead; a little trust in life itself, I must say. I moved ahead, seeing what once was unseen, acknowledging what once was unknown.

I have spent days in the rains, days that seemed to be endless, counting the raindrops that were to fill the cup of my self — up to the brim.

I have watched the rain, pouring down from the clouds, rejoicing humble folks around, on each of us must a little rain fall.

I have spent hours in the winter, listening to the wood crackle, as the fire blazed, brightening everything around; however, to me, it did not reach.

I have known the dew drops, much dear to me, quenching the thirst of the birds that start their day early, until they no longer wake up.

I have seen a little; there is much that is unseen that reminds me of myself here, pushing me to the realm of the unknown, making me believe that there are things that I must know and things that I must see, before I perish.

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