It’s been a while since I last wrote,
For there’s nothing worth writing of.
A nightingale tore off her throat,
For there’s nothing worth singing of.
.
It’s not just love that is lacking,
The purple rain too, is now slack.
Their eyes warn that the past repeats,
They avoid red, for fear of black.
.
I wish I saw some new heartbreak,
Some new love for poetry’s sake.
The racy passions to despise,
I need another love’s demise.
.
I don’t like the sky to be grey,
Either be red, or bitter black.
But grey skies? They’ve nothing to say,
They just exist as poets’ rack.
.
I watch new couples, for new verse,
Instead of red, their hearts are grey.
I search for black or vicious curse,
And end up dull in faded May.
.
Where’s his new muse? Where’s her black rose?
Where’s the butterflies? Where’s your prose?
Where’s the ecstasy? Why so grey?
Was this the destiny you chose?
.
Grey kills love, don’t let it get close.