My life is grey.
As grey as the swollen rainclouds and their curtain of drizzle,
As grey as a pigeon’s wing slicing through the dense, sluggish smog,
As grey as the cloned suits trooping robotically from train to toil,
As grey as grit-stained, rain-melted roadside slush,
As grey as the towering glass monstrosities terrorising the cityscape,
As grey as feathery cobwebs multiplying in an abandoned room,
As grey as the rancid cloud billowing from a smoker’s lips,
As grey as a swarm of rank rats scuttling through city streets,
As grey as tarnished silver losing its once luminous lustre,
As grey as the gaunt, ashen face of a man approaching his last breath.
My life is grey,
An uninspiring, unfulfilling, unsatisfying vacuum
Sucking the colour from behind my eyes
And within my soul.
Now I, too, am grey.
Emma H, age 26, 03/03/2017