When was it,

That the color washed away?

That the vivid blue sky turned a matted gray?

That the brown soil turned black?

That the bright yellow sun turned white

And all the other whites lost their light?

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

When was it,

That the clearness blurred?

That the blades of grass merged?

That the separate lines converged?

That the shapes vanished

And all the patterns coalesced?

When was it

That the multiple became uniform?

That the variety became the norm?

That the fun became the bland?

That the dreams became the reality

And every idea grew to contain no creativity?

When was it?