This October the nights are long, my nights are drawn out.
It must be soon until the sun brings with it my purpose.
O, for when it cries, the sky and my sky become one, a harmony of total grey.
It must be soon, where is my sun?
It has no origin, this grey.
Why do colours exaggerate this grey?
There is a quelled sea within that washes over the back of my eyes, but never will you see.
The grey suppresses this sea, keeps the blue out of sight.
But never does the grey dare vanish, even when I am sickeningly, to you, covered in colours.
The grey will remain for as long as I do for there will never be enough colour I could mix in, to kill it.