the isms of a Cretan poet

If I feel grey
Then grey exists
Or rather it persists
To pervade my reality
With such brutality
That black and white are now to me
But a convenience
Chosen by ignorance
To avoid complexity.
But not me.
I bleed grey
Like a pen bleeds words
And at once
How swords bleed men.
Yet it’s difficult to defend
A shade
To the wilfully blind.


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