Symphony In Gray Minor

I sit and paint a picture grim:
an ashtray filled up to the brim
of joys that came and stayed and passed.
Why did they go away so fast?

Why can't I read a stranger's glare
as they walk past but walk and stare?
Is there something they can see,
a something that's unknown to me?

Why can't I store the sunshine's kiss?
In winter's frost a thing I'll miss,
along with innocence of rain.
When will it speak to me again?

Why can't I write the future's lines
to promise dialogue divine?
To write myself into a dream
without the same old minor theme.

I sit and paint but colours fade
until they all resemble gray.
I know the canvas won't forgive
the brush, for spilling all its grief.