Grey morning, why’d you come so soon out of comforting darkness?
I could sleep for days.
Slow waking to an angry storm off a New Brunswick highway.
I could drive for days.
Hey morning,
been out on this freeway
for a year and a Monday,
but I can’t find a good way home,
so I wake alone to your monochrome.
Say something; don’t just stare at the cracks in our holy ceiling.
You could pray for days.
Grey morning, why’d you start so soon in uncomfortable silence?
We won’t talk for days. We don’t talk for days.
Hey baby,
I am what you make me:
a lover or lackey,
a fog on a freeway,
a tone in the misty pale of your monochrome.
Grey morning,
you come for me lately
to mock and forsake me
with love like a thorn in my side, which I must abide.
And I must abide.