GRAYSCALE

Upon a faded, olden page
Had accumulated so much rage,
Of a floral yellow past,
That flew by so gently and so fast.
Like a trained hound—
Chained and bound.
Paying tolls,
Cleaning fishbowls.
Vile imagery— overt and coarse;
Grayscale horizon on April shores.

Since this, till now
When did I take a bow?
Where is the name I made?
What is the part I played.

Be still, my heart;
Don't be dismayed.
We need another start
With a better upgrade.
What has not been
Has no time now,
To be a matter
Of solemn vows.

-K.G.