The gray sky pales above the mountain’s peak,
it’s sighing slow, a future coming bleak.
The clouds a-swirling overhead this day,
the echo of a lifetime filled with gray.
As breaths all sighs become within the heart,
the clouds up high are unimpressed by art.
Identity is lost before the veil,
as piercing cries burst through the stormy gale.
Hands clutched toward the temple of the mind,
what avenue is there that is not blind?
The heart deceives and reaps not its own fall,
the only hope is now to hear His call.