Grey Sky
tufted and eroded,
no tells in the old face of this long neutral sleeper
waiting waiting waiting
for the prick of a dream to decide.
such lofty mist,
it couches passion or tripe,
jubilant rain
or the terse dissonance of long-lost windsong sobbed.
what is that solar signet
dim on an envelope of ancient grey and
what what what why why why?
maybe shy stars within?
a poem urgent to be read?
who knows … these …
frozen billows of endless ivory
meditate meditate meditate--
is that what they do?
wait for thought to erupt, pure of hover?
gods from a soft-knitted, grey-silked chrysalis?
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