Drab

​The reason 
The substrate layer underneath our reality
Is grayscale --
There’s no substance to life
Anymore 
On top of the substrate where life lives
It tastes bland like diluted whiskey
The colors are muted
And we see only what we want to
It’s either too rough or too smooth to the touch
This cornerstone
Because it’s untouched or over-worn
It requires embellishment
For short term satisfaction
Of the mind
We are not alive or dead here
But we live and pass away
Like flies
Everything is the same everywhere
The same people
Same buildings
Same forests
Same bull
I sing but my bubble bursts
Yet nothing overflows
Everything is warm
Even the coffee
We all take little sips as if it were hot.