Grey is a plainness,
Newspaper clippings creased and torn.
Grey is a faulty Polaroid,
With edges roughly worn.
Grey is the clouded sky,
Preparing flakes to pour down,
And so are those same flakes,
Muddied by ploughs and the grip of the ground.
Grey is baking asphalt,
Pouring steam,
Monochrome,
In the summer sea of green.
Yet grey is chilled chrome,
And fluffy dryer lint,
The cafeteria’s mystery meat,
And the hair you find in it.
Grey is the artist’s rough smudge,
An inoffensive tone,
Favoring no pigment,
But searching in worry
Of being alone.

Grey is unappealing, but realistic,
As we find ourselves and our world
Much more colorful than they really are.