50 Shades of Grey

It is ever present. The grey sheet that washes over the sky and fails to reason or dislodge or co-operate. It will cover the skies and prevent sun, stars, or moon from whisking you away. From it will come condensation, frozen, cold, layer upon layer of it. Inside the claustrophobic walls of your house is where you will be, shielded from the grey blight, huddled with blankets for warmth. The breeze will no longer be cool and refreshing but instead will be harsh and uninviting. Waking up in the pitch black of early morning to remove the hundreds and thousands of pounds of snow from driveway and sidewalk alike. Having to leave for work earlier. And still doused in the grey, grey, grey, everywhere, sky to ground, trees leafless, snow a polluted mess of mud and grime from cars caked with salt. The greyness could be permanent, for all you know, stretching on beyond the horizon as far as the eye can see. Only time will relinquish the hold it has. Only time.