Midnight Grey
In the witching midnight hour, they say all cats... and thoughts, are grey;
it doesn't matter what our hopes and dreams were; they are all lost now.
The memories persist... dead petals swirling in confused array
blowing through my mind again, as I sit here, and wonder how
it came to this; this Supernova once shared... but now, ice-encased;
our shooting star burnt out and tumbled; cindered in the blackest hole
of recognising "We're all through," plain read, deep in the frozen wastes
of your impassive gaze;
The grey thoughts creep and wend, and take their toll.
There is no point to curse the bed we made; to walk the line so fine
t'wixt love and hate; I must take care... for such a web here, I could weave;
I must look towards the dawn; tomorrow perhaps, the sun may shine;
there was no-one to hear or care if I cried, when I stood and watched you leave.
But, if I always look behind me; then all that I shall ever see
is... the shadow of our past; soft slinking... trailing, furtively.
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