As I write this open cover,

An ode to the grey mist and cloudy day,

A sensation driven by the rumbling cars outside my window,

Clearly the end of one and start of another,

To re-create yesterday's fold,

So perfect but yet so unachievable,

Is that the role of the grey cover?

The duvet that masks imperfection,

The mask that I set on my bed,

But tis nary the end of the road,

Because tomorrow will yield the same ode.