When I could see again — it took a few minutes — I received a gift. The cerulean sky was stirred by froth and wisp of high clouds, and frosted by gentle, puffy giants under their sway. The air no longer held the crisp, sharp edge of early morning and offered the cool, soft caress of a bright fall afternoon. The sword of light pricked my lugubrious balloon, full of the coughing and gasping and lack of sleep from the previous night, and alloyed with the cabalistic contents, converting night into grey. This is not the dull, leaden grey of dungeon dirt light, but the bright golden grey of the morning's first light as it warms the dawn mists away.
It lifted my soul and set my spirit to flight. I share my thoughts in this grey soliloquy.
The sun, a dagger in my eye,
Does pierce my study, grey.
That golden orb, a gilded scythe,
Cuts through my mental drey.
By searing touch of golden fire,
My tangled thoughts are kissed,
And foggy, dark, and dense as mire,
They dissipate as mist.
I cannot dwell upon my fate,
Or where my dangers lie;
When high clouds use the wind to bait,
A bright November sky.
They tease me with the power to think,
And though my reason raves,
I’ll leap from intuition's brink,
And wallow in its waves.
I lose my worry — black and white;
The glorious day dissolves,
The stain of dark and endless night,
Through which my world revolves.
The tangle loosed, the edges keen,
Grow soft in glowing day;
The darkling world I've always seen,
Is fuzzy, and it's grey.
And though grey seems cold victory,
Against the throes of night,
It glows with friendly warmth for me,
And glorious is the sight!