Grey Paint

Among a population, identically produced;
A homogenious mixture of grey paint.
Each mind programmed and trained to know and believe;
And possess predicted reactions.
Each habitual, structured, religious, and syntax.

I am a single leaf on a tree of many;
Trying to find identity as I fall. Laying on the ground ,
Looking up at where I came from and where I am bound.
There is a spark, a light in a room of dark;
A signal to my eye, a sense of change,
An isolated part.

One untouched, unmarked, brandless, purity;
Weightless of preillusions.
You, the soul I speak of, with eyes of depth,
Rather than opaque ornaments of perfected onix.
Uncovered, naked of paint, unbound, unmolded,
Wet clay.

You are figured wind and I watch you as you dance in the rain.
When all run and hide, rather to be entertained inside,
Or ignore their senses which beg them to close their eyes
And imagine a straight line.

When all follow a visual path with eyes open,
Marked by those who traveled there.
You keep yours closed and feel the way.
Independent of the light of day.