Black and white
pictures of flowers
have no scent.
No feeling of petals,
nor thorn, or vine,
simply existing,
unable to
grow.
Dull, grey light,
another winter
morning comes,
bereft of all
comfort, or
nurturing hands,
only cold
and toil.
Like old movies
of sadly dim
and fading wars.
The days shade
vainly into night
and night accedes
to bear the day,
but only for a while.
Slowly,
carefully,
I pick my way
across the ice.
Similitude,
a sinking sun
comes earlier some day.
Bide the time.
Sink sinfully
into shades of grey
and contemplate
the immolate.
The day comes soon,
obliterate
the want to slow.
Fall away.
Faded days,
like petals from a rose.
Black and white,
old charcoal,
we all go back to one
faded dignity.
HG -2019
Great post 😁