2nd Hand

Grey snow seems colder with no colour,
If white was even a colour in the first place.
I raise my flag, waving in a non-existent wind,
Walking parallel to the ice at a non-existent pace.
Walking unseen through a forest of familiar eyes.

Canvas draining colours and shapes,
Faces and places,
Feelings and meanings,
Meaning nothing to me now.
Wiped clean, a new piece of paper, ready to write on again.

But my pen’s run out of ink.