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Sometimes the world
seems ashen grey
like a murky pool
or dried up branch
of melancholy hue,
perhaps a blasé piece
of dried up clay
left out too long
one Summer day.
No smile soft
or sanguine thought
can grant retreat away
from this achromatic concrete day.
Sometimes the world
seems black and white.
This goes here.
That goes there.
This is wrong and
that is right.
All things in terms of
day and night
or dark abyss and blinding light.
No sparks of color
catch the heart or eye.
No questions here,
no asking why.
Black and white,
the full array,
will seem enough
for that hard edged day.
Some days are all
in colors bright
a sun-washed glen
a misty bay,
an Irish morning
all green and blue,
rainbows glistening
on beads of dew.
Poppies and Daisies dance
blithely dressed, twirling,
laughing merrily along
at morning’s cheerful
wake-up song.
But sometimes
the world seems
ashen grey.
That would be today.

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