A Nighmare only once, never again seen, except-.
Gray, like the lucid lights on a night avenue.
Except that frail, earthly colourless void
That is no colour, not all, not none.

A blanket of despair.
Or a veil of peace.
Or something else, Who can know?

It’s like there’s nothing-
Was, Is or Will Never Be.
It is timeless, ageless. Lifeless.

It is not like a desert.
Nor it it like space.

It is like a gray fog that limits the sight
To nothing but gray fog.

It is like floating up, floating down again.
It is like a dead tree, twisted against the rest.
It is like the silver hair of an old man.
It is like the lifeless rag entombed in the coffin.
It is like cold, wet cement.

Death is gray.

2.

moving sands of time,
washing shores in the pale gray moonlight,
crickets and beetles battling through the stinging trees,
harsh wind reeking painful havoc on the land,
thickets swaying to protect the thirsty roots,
flowers crinkled from the days sun,
and a gray branch, melting back to the ground.

3.

The hologram is but a representation,
Cast out by the hurting brain.

Colourless and motionless, the nightmare will continue.
Waking up, facing the world, seeing the life spawn.
So colourful, so weak and fragile.

The fog is solid, calm.
Gray.