Grey Area

These are all the parts of the painting
The brush could not touch
I’m drenched in an old suit from an old dream
My old voice couldn’t get too far
Our monochrome desires, now in an age of colour
Are clueless of how to come true
To become
I try to repaint myself into a shade less grey
Less old, less of a mutual portrait
From two hands that now try to fit
Into something other than a palm
Every night, in hope
I soak my hands in the paints,
Make chop sticks out of the brush
Drink a new colour of water everyday
They say I’ll die soon
They say germs find their way to all the parts
The light cannot touch and make a home there
But that is why I sit in the rain
The lightening is pure and cleanses
The thunder could kill, could heal
A double edged decision
I may never survive to regret.

LARDO