The colour of depression is grey,
An unrelenting, ceaseless, smothering grey,
A grey so bleak it haunts.
Blue, now, is the colour of sadness,
Black the colour of grief,
Harbingers of pain, them both,
Yet colour me black and blue I say,
If the only other prospect is grey!
For much as pain is blazing red,
Unlike the nothingness I dread.
It’s pure, and deep, and honest emotion,
It’s catharsis, it real, a reminder of being alive,
A reminder much needed, in a landscape of grey,
A smog stretching into years,
An insistent voice pushing you to admit,
The cost’s too great to survive.
So yes, the black and blue are welcome,
Though you’d rather have me pursuing
the pinks and yellows instead,
The colours of joy and laughter,
Of naive, bashful. blushing hope,
“Oh, what a glorious world!”, you tell me,
Expecting me to agree!
But dearest ones, you speak in tongues,
Of witches and imps and a fairy tale crew,
You try to paint these glorious pictures,
Forgetting what I keep telling you!
Carrying on so blissfully
Ignorant that I’m but a phantom,
An echo of my unbroken self,
trapped in a world parallel to yours,
a desperate apparition hidden in plain sight,
of a world rendered in greyscale,
where yours is coloured bright.
So, build a bridge,
Look for a wormhole,
Try to first reach me,
Before you waste your efforts painting rainbows
That I, cloaked in an opaque veil of grey,
Cannot breathe through,
Let alone see.