Gray.

You asked me for five minutes

I gave you an hour

As usual I am forgiving

as you snore beside me
and I think about you in the abstract

in lines you’ve fed me
and moves you’ve made

in shades of orange and sometimes
a little gray

just as sometimes your ego possesses your mouth
and your mouth my clouded judgment

I think about you in a song
but really you’re not there

You’re in a paintbrush
waiting to be spilled
and hung
and examined
and talked about
over cheap wine

and pretentious words
somebodys idea of genius
and
somebody elses hope

but someone thinks you’re ugly
and someone isn’t impressed

Gray.

Beaufield Berry

Joined December 2007

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