I sit here by the dim candle light,

with no sound but the deafening tick

of the grandfather clock.

Tick, tick, tick.

And no comfort in this cold,

colorless world.

It is as if I am trapped within the bounds

of an old black and white photograph.

The people are all the same,

their faces blur to mix in,

no different than the others.

Their voices have no defining quality

from the droning of the others.

I look at myself and realize

I am one of them.

I have nothing to myself.

And when the day is done,

I have nothing to be proud of.

By the second,

my hands grow withered,

my hair turns a dull grey.

My skin folds in upon its self.

And with my exterior fading,

turning colorless,

withering and collapsing,

along with it is my soul.

I am nothing but an old photograph in which there is no color.

A symphony lacking music.

A poem from the mind,

Not from the bottom of the soul.

Tick, tick, tick

Every silence is deafening,

and every tick

shatters the silence

fragile as glass,

with mind blowing impact.

I realize,

with every tick,

that I will die alone

in this colorless world.

Of colorless people.

Who know nothing,

and wish to know nothing.

We all will die.

We all leave colorless lives.

Except her.

My mind whispers her name to me.

For once,

the words become music

the name

is a waltz,

soft and slow

with a fiery finish.

In the sea of grey,

she is a beacon of color.

Colorless voices whisper in distaste,

She is not one of us.

But this matters not,

for sometimes all we need,

is a little splash of color.