The days, they grow so
The days, they grow so long and bare, to share
My e'er so cautious pain and strife, a knife
Inside the back of memories long past.
Grey clouds float o'er and I- to show my guilt-
Have fed the crows and filled my heart with silt.
But have I not had it better than some?
The sky may not be blue, lest it's not black!
And though the portrait that I paint is dull,
At least it shows in colors- Colors still.
The richness of even so little light,
To realize the beauty of the night!
As slowly the moon shows her veil of stars.
This poem is about:
Me
Our world
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