Tears drop as the gray ashes flay,
the faces are blank when the grey corpse sways.
The ghost appears in the smoky shade,
that’s when the dingy depression raids.
The grey ‘Old Lady’ whispers from the coffin,
‘let me be free and take me to heaven.’
Grey sleek hair glide from inside,
elegance and compassion drip aside.
Life of Grey lady; full of compromise,
neither towards dark nor approaches light.
Calm and composure, surety with might,
mature enough; to not to flight.
Better grey than garish,
this never survives.
Grey matter wants glamour,
thus subdue the subtle site.