All is grey slate.

Is there really nothing in the world?
Everything seems to me,
To be at such extremities.
The clear divisions,
Were once so bold,
And now…
All is grey slate.
Cold to touch,
Flat and unloving.
The tips of my fingers are numb.
My lips are white.
My eyes are swelling geysers,
Ready to explode in boiling ferocity.
A fog this morning,
On my walk to the train station.
All the world is asleep,
And drenched in dreams.
Is there really nothing in the world?
I think of you constantly,
And have premonitions,
Of my death.
Is there really anything else?