A day passes
And then another
Stringed together
In a grey thread’s snare

Those Grey colourless beads
(Or days?)
Were once lustrous multihued
Inked with the black of the night
They used to be indistinguishable
But come dawn and each bead would reflect
An Orange, pink, yellow or a blue sky
Bathed in the white light of the morn
Like the morning dew
Each would sparkle, dazzle and shine

Were they real or
Were they just gilded,
To mimic the glitter of gold
Where there was none?
Or sliver-polished
To simulate a faked ambience
And create the illusion
Of a blissfulness that had never begun?

They would patter like pearls
In a gentle symphony
Performed by the nature’s orchestra

The only music that now remains
Is In the chafing of the beads crowded
On a grey lacerated thread

But one day…

Was it the advent of grey colourless clouds
Of misfortune, of misery?
Or did Providence turn irate
And turned away the tide of favour?

It was no one else
But you who had, in a fit,
Painted the beads
Grey, colourless
And had strangled them one by one
Till they no longer could
Reflect your vivacity, your joy, your life

And perhaps
With that unmindful
Onslaught on the manifestation,
Its source too withered away
Into obscurity…
Leaving behind a dull ache of loss
And an indolence stretching on until
The boredom from inaction
Will Turn into premeditated hibernation.