The grey stood still;
still as a lamp post.
The greyness was of a day
that smelt like furze encrusted mothballs.
My chips were cashed
but I was still at the table.
Nowhere to go from
nearly down and fading out,
except maybe back to the
knackers yard of a dream
that I had been inhabiting for a
while. Someone waited there,
covered in cling film
on a bed of flowers.
The empty scent imbued on
a clear spring sheet.
Its drops
cold
and full of weariness,
stinking of old sleep;
where a dream's sail-by date
whooshed for all who wished
it wouldn't.
Unbeknownst to me
I had now come and gone;
gone to the street
with its greyness
and denseness.
the unliftable bearing down
on all my tenses.
I crossed my arms
and stared at the sky.
I wandered home to the why?
I like your last line.