Gently Orange Inhaled Grey

Submerged in a misty grey chill of an impending winter the morning soiled odours pulled away without a tug. Bobbing like a marker cork in a wave test pool I wafted through the obvious signs of receding industry speeding towards my karmic cycle of labour-linked sustenance.
Granite ballast shards treacled by motion paved to horizon. Unwhitened by the tooth paste promises flashed on televisions and grease spray recipients of millions of axles whirring by, the oft shat on sleepers banded by steel are keerrrruping through early morning consciousness like a comb running through teeth. The rails are the ignored travellers' yin and yang-burnished, shining, use-shined on top and rust browned laziness impaled to inexplicable perpetuity.
The sun has been holding its breath for a while as it dives gradually and relentlessly diving through, making the clouds paler with progress. The clouds clung on to the sun's progress with viscosity preserving the modesty of the mountain tops  like strategically draped limbs of a glow lit nude portrait.

The sweaty labourer smell of wild marigolds is flowing orange. Fleeting fields of wild marigolds hit the senses like an over ripened fruit with with a wrinkly squishy skin and sweet cloying ripe papaya flesh desperately holding a lot of slimy seeds--the fields of marigolds are exploding. Showering snaking blue windows and hitting the face with orangeade splashes of millions of beads of tangerine, marigolds lull to a slumber.
Surfacing from briefly from slumber is picturesque along Western Ghats falling off sharply green and the-rains-are-over-browns, pulling wool over eyes to stretch vision towards deeper greens and cloud wreathed spires of calm.
Another return...