
Grey as it dribbles,
drools, wet are his eyes,
yet his lips are dry.
He lisps.
Barely any words left,
yet he can still whisper
good morning, pet.
Breathing heavily,
turning around in agony.
His grey fingers twist
and the cats he glimpses
out in the courtyard
meanderingly meow.
Weather wonders.
It never stopped raining
for any of us.
The rain washes away the grey,
but every single day
the grey keeps coming back.
Grey as it dribbles.