23d • General discussion
The Weight of the Grey
The cold wind is blowing,
stripping the heat from the glass,
whistling through the gaps in the stone.
The clouds are rolling in—
not drifting, but marching,
an iron wall closing the distance.
People are rushing,
shadows darting between the shops,
the frantic rattle of plywood and locks,
preparing for the storm
that is approaching.
No one looks up.
The sky is grey.
The air is cold.
It settles in the bone.
It waits for the sky to break.
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The Weight of the Grey
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