A World That Has Lost All Colour: (An Odyssey in Greyscale)

& here you stand—
or perhaps you kneel—
or maybe you float, like some old forgotten whisper,
adrift in the grayscale hush of a world
that once blazed, burned, bled in hues
that the tongue no longer remembers how to name.


---

She tried, once, to taste red.
Pressed her lips against the cold, empty mouth of an apple
but found only the dry sting of forgotten fire,
no sweetness, no sin, no story left to tell.
The apple did not care.
It had forgotten too.


---

You—yes, you—
reach for the sky, hoping for blue,
but your fingers close around the throat of a silence
so vast it swallows even the sound of longing.
The sky is no sky at all,
just a smudge of unwritten words.


---

He remembers when green still sighed through the trees,
when fields sang the names of the wind in fifty shades of spring,
when rivers carried echoes of old myths in ribbons of silver and jade.
But now?
Now the trees are statues—
withered ghosts of a chlorophyll dream.

He speaks to them.
They do not answer.


---

I hold a sunflower up to my face,
searching, searching for that golden laughter,
but it is nothing more than a wheel of dust,
an echo of some lost apocalypse that arrived
in silence,
unnoticed.


---

The children—those who remain—
no longer ask for crayons.
They do not draw.
What is there to draw
when the world has emptied itself
of colour,
of edges,
of the sharp contrast between night and day?
What is night when black is only a softer shade of grey?
What is day when white is just a lie?


---

And you, standing there, with your hands cupped—
as if waiting for rain,
as if expecting it to pour down in liquid indigo,
but it does not.

It never does.

Only the grey, the grey, the grey—
falling in slow, reluctant dust,
clinging to the ribs of abandoned cities,
settling in the hollows of bones
that once carried color in their marrow.


---

She tries to recall purple.
Dips her fingers into the void,
paints bruises onto her own arms just to see if the memory remains.
It does not.
It fades like all the others,
into the vast, monochrome forgetting.


---

I once knew a man who swore he could still hear yellow,
humming in the distance like a childhood song.
But when he opened his mouth to sing,
only the silence came out—
thick, suffocating, swallowing him whole.

I never saw him again.


---

What is left?
A world of static,
of ghosts trapped in half-developed photographs,
of lips moving in silent films with no captions,
of memories dissolving like unprocessed negatives,
fading, fading, gone.


---

You wonder—
oh, how you wonder—
was it always this way?

Did we ever truly swim in the deep ocean of cobalt dreams,
run barefoot through the amber song of autumn,
drink from the violet dusk of quiet revolutions?

Or was that all a trick?
A fleeting hallucination?
A world we once imagined
but never really touched?


---

She stands in front of a mirror—
but it does not reflect.
It absorbs.
Swallows the shape of her face,
leaving only the suggestion of a shadow.


---

He walks the streets lined with buildings that
once pulsed with neon confessions,
now nothing but the skeletal remains of a forgotten rainbow.
Somewhere, deep in the guts of the city,
a flickering light gasps out its final breath—
& even the darkness does not care.


---

We used to write poems in cerulean ink.
Now the words smudge before they can be read,
melting into the page,
blurring like all the lost horizons.


---

I wake up in the morning
& taste ash.
There is no coffee black enough to fill the void,
no sunrise bright enough to crack through the monochrome.
The birds still sing,
but their voices are the color of lead.


---

You are here.
But are you?

When colour is gone,
what is left to hold onto?

Is a world without colour still a world at all?

#Poetry #MonochromeWorld #Surrealism #DystopianVerse #LostColours #GreyscaleLife #ForgottenHues