Grey (3): Little Black Letters.
Little black words, on paling pages of white
He scours through them, scans for sense
They’re just letters, he thinks
But he’s looking too closely, he’s too tense.
He dreams up a verse, puts his pen to work
Slant goes his hand, and slant goes his sight
He meant to say something else entirely,
But what he penned down, gave much more insight
Now he’s writing as a hobby, never begins with a mission
He sees letters, but when the job’s done, he now sees words too
And sentences, and meanings- larger than he ever thought he’d be
Somehow it makes him look wiser than he meant to be
There’s infinite more wisdom, where this comes from,
He realizes, looking at the little black letters
His voice fails him, so he lets his pen loose
Listens instead, to the black ink as it splatters
Between the black and the white, he’s afraid to turn grey
So he whips up his own concoction of reds and greens
Tries to stay awake, falsely falls asleep
Only he knows what his mind has seen.