Mister Grey

A man with few words, he had little to say.

Spent his nights quite alone, by himself through the day.

His manner was mild, and his face was alright,

But what good is a face if it’s kept out of sight?

His hands were a blur as they swept past the concord,

For discord was favored by the man at the fret board.

For fear that he’d drifted quite far from his senses,

His dropped his guitar and put up his defenses.

He looked through the window, with eyes set to cry,

As he witnessed the people he’d loved pass him by.

No one could love him, yet no one could say

Why life became death for our friend, Mister Grey.