I stand at the precipice of a world,
That's painted in grays and blacks, whites.
All the muted non-colors you could think of.
Not a solitary drop of hue, shade,
Or true color to be seen.
From up here here at the very tip-top
You can see the whole thing,
And this, this is where I come to think
While staring down at the pale
Condition of the planet.
"Nothing but a god forsaken husk."
I think to myself. God forsaken I say,
Because I used to pray for things all the time.
For the sake of things pertaining to life,
For other people's lives, for mankind;
Things that were, more than likely,
Not worthy of prayers. But I prayed.
And in my experiences I have yet to see
A single one of them answered.
Life is still shitty, and the planet still
Moves like its dead. Involuntarily and rhythmic.
Some sick macabre beat truly worthy
Of calling an accurate imitation of life.

The process of thought that brought me
To these bitter conclusions, after all
That's happened, is not an irrational one.
After all, I'm the one who painted this place
Grey so very long ago.