LINCOLN THOMAS

Grey is autumn.

Grey is spring.

It embodies everything in between.

The bleak December,

The balance of extremities.

Grey is inhaling a deep breath,

And sprinting with all your might.

Grey is the absence and the presence of light.

There can be no definition,

For what is truly seen,

The cracked grey shells of memories past,

Have suddenly lost their mean.

The only comparison which I can convey,

Is the unsure and anxious emotions that haunt us everyday.

Honestly, grey is good and evils baby,

That leaves us feeling: maybe.

But grey has potential,

At least half, right?

However, the other half night.

One is genuine, the other fakes it.

I guess grey is,

Just what you make it.