Shape

A cushion of heaviness
pushes against the ears,
grey-blue,
dense,
gentle like flattery,
coarse like an awkward silence;
Voices, blurred,
rise as if carrying
dying men's wishes
upon bubbles;
which winds,
slicing the water's surface
tear,
I blink hard,
lulling myself awake
But,
the shapeless remain shapeless,
And buckets of colour
are emptied elsewhere.