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.