The Gray Man by Hannah Pedersen

The Gray Man by Hannah Pedersen

A gray man, waits on a city street,

Startle-eyed as a snake in light,

Piping puffs, floating in strange sync,

Tapping here and there, becoming lost in fright.

Sleepy and dreary, his time-old ditty

Humming his comfort, soothing soft,

Coordinating gray puffs guide him around the city, 

A childhood song warming the frost.

The minutes turn to hours, melting like a Dali clock

While his gray life stutteres unseen, all the witnesses gone 

The echoes of before, surrounding the tick and the tock

At every corner, he stops to wonder where had he gone wrong?

He’s riddled religion, philosophy and growth,

He’s spoken with people of  brains, hearts, destine or spell,

Each meeting or group conjoined through sacred oath

Tapping in circles, a gray map from hell.

Like a prisoner waiting, half-mad and content

Rotting beneath London in his jail,

Eternal, each minute gone, or spent

Carving concrete hope with a flattened nail.

In wide circles, the gray man spins

Concrete scribbled by worn penny loafers

Rethinking and directing in a constant dim

Waiting for the days to be over.

There used to be color, violent red and somber blue,

He used to be helpful, hunched back and aged hands,

Her memory fades, the help left him too,

Despite all the wait, the gray man makes no plans.

The past runs like blood, both always checked,

The thinking won’t stop, now deeper as he roams,

The soul, to shades of dark and wrecked,

The gray man just wants to find home.