How grey it seems to you and me today.
Overthinking what I’ve done is not ad-
-visable: it’s done and dusted, over.
But now the paper waits for me: to tell
my friend what I have done. But it’s too soon.
Multi-coloured vehicles flash past and
leave their blurry trails behind my blind eyes.
Perhaps I’ll pass the time of day with my
TV and hope the postman isn’t long.
Or I’ll take a bath.
Shakespeare wrote in fives
like this, but longer
and with style. Do we
revere his genius
for style, because he’s
dead, his writing’s old
or are we simply
jealous of success?