Who am I?

For I flow, down the stream,

and fall into a docile dream.

Stagnant, and inert

I am but a fly.

A sitting and watching pest,

who searches, yet finds no next.

Lost, and Frantic

What of them?

The Grey?

Who or what are they?

They, my dear, are the prey.

Praying and continuing on

if they may. The prey.

They, nay, the Grey 

cannot lay until the day

The day in which they are clay.

Clay? Yes clay.

Watered down and deformed

into something that they aren't.

The Grey.