the illusion of

dark, dismal, dull

is really rather pleasant in

the soft wash

of midnight rain

with the cool wind blowing

across the wide open plains

and the soft touch of silk with

monochromatic paintings

dancing across star-struck eyes as

members of the army

march down to war

against the whole world packed

folded and stuck

into a tiny little box then

pushed away into the

dark, dismal, dull

absorbed radiation

pulsing through cardiac veins

with the captain of the arterial seas

cultivating the growth of

things long gone and

things long forgotten

with the old norse myths

dusty in their wicker-basket corners

sitting with the rest of the world

cloaked in shades of gray