All colours appear to me as one.
Through motley stillicide I’ve become
A hue of white, a splash of grey
A glimpse of life within the fray
All my senses have grown cold
Though I am but a dozen-score old
I have lived centuries, but will never know
What life has really to bestow.
Death appeared to me one day
After years of simmering dismay
Speaking in soft funereal tones
Do you know what you have sown?
What is life we while away
When all is gone and none can stay
What is suffering but a means to live
In ceaseless longing emptiness
None shall pass the test of time.
And I have trouble now to rhyme
This inner fire, this fraught desire
To heights I dare not ever aspire.
So tell me what I do not know
To shovel out this perennial snow
And teach me how to navigate
The bourgeois life till I am sate.