Heavy Grey

It was Monday morning for most of the world
As a voice sang Auld Lang Syne
Through the heave and the spittle
Of a night spent vicariously on the thinnest
Of lines.
Between us and the grey
Lies less than there used to.
What once was a dull tone to
The back of the skull, a reminder
That things could get hairy,
Is now an ever present roar;
An inability to think otherwise
Beyond the terror and noise.
Imagine the greatest storm ever seen,
Existing solely to intimate
That you'll never be content
In a world where your feet
Exist purely by requirement,
To walk upon the ground
And never leave it.
A Monday morning for most of the world,
For whom the period is temporary,
Has no name for those who remain.

Written by Mr Woods on 13/10/18
© 2018 Anthony Woods

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night, morning

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