Gray is the storm cloud on the horizen

threatening to release a monsoon of rain upon us

gray is the sliver hairs draped upon a wise man's head

gray is the moon; a loyal companion whom i confide my secrets in on sleepless nights

gray is the lone wolf who walks fearlessly in solitude

it is the rocks that bear the history of the world itself

gray feels detatched like a button that has fallen off of a jacket

gray is reserved, standing on the dimly lit street corner waiting for someone to approach, but hoping no one does

its classy and understated like a pearl necklace or a little black dress

it's thick and illusive like smoke

gray is a soulful piano playing in the background

its the area between right and wrong

it's ashes, the remnants of what was

gray is the clap of thunder before the rain

it has a bitter taste, to others it reminds them of a delicate earl gray tea

gray is a writer in a cozy coffee shop on a stormy day

gray is conflicting

gray is a feeling not like any other

its having nowhere to go, but being pushed out in the rain

it's numb and cold, but oddly cozy and comforting all the same

gray is being happy where you are, but being homesick for a place you don't even know

gray is sitting by a fireplace on a cold winter day, watching the flakes fall silently to the ground

gray is light as a feather, but heavy as concrete

it's simple yet complex

gray is the shadow dancing on the wall

gray is nothingness, nothing at all.