A Rare Bit of Poetry

I don’t often write poetry—but here’s a little something in iambic pentameter.

GREY

A mop of black hair dulled amidst the dirt,

Shadows of night spell days ending in death.

Grey eyes now lift to rise again from false

Endings and burn, ignite the deal, sold soul

Bitter and sweet, alive but free no more.

In life is death, in death is life remade,

A new purpose: to serve his own demons,

To be the dark he hid inside himself.