by Nick Gisburne
Your stories paint the shades their world became,
But nothing, not a word, to them, is true.
Their dreams dissolve together, each the same.
They see no sense, no certainty, in you.
The colour of their cloth is always grey.
In time or space was any soul so slow?
Subjected to the dullness of their day,
Denounce decorum. Fuck their feelings. Go.
A cold existence, serious and sad,
The comfort of contempt, to which they cling,
Is all they ever want, or ever had,
But you, beyond their silent stupor, sing.
The skies above the fools who fail to see
Are filled with colours, fascinating, free.
