We are all, to an extent,
The same.
Portraits arranged
In an endless landscape,
Painted in many colours.

Light refracts through
It all.
Sun bleeding off the pages,
Changing us
In its glow.

Grass of green
And sky of blue,
And changed
By perspective.

The artists hand,
Shaking but firm,
Decides all but what we wish
As we are led down the dark path.

We watch, frozen,
As portraits tear, and change
To dust in old age.
Transition to new.

Flowers of gold
Grow soon
In wistful dreams,
Blocked by fickle progress
In the cold light of day.

A Cafe,
A home,
I see it all
Behind the scenes.

Smiles and laughter
And pieces of conversation
Fit together.
A jigsaw, a puzzle;
Painted in many colours.

Children laugh and cry
Depending on mood and circumstance.
Look deeper and see
The loneliness of riches
And pain of little.

I enter the pool,
Cold under the weaving
Shadows of a long-dead copse.
Submerged, I travel.

I fall slowly,
And stand on firm ground
Which falls with me
Ever faster.

Turning, twisting,
Straight and even
Through layers of paint.
Peeling before me like the worn fabric
Of an old jumper.

The anticipation worse
Than inevitable impact
As consciousness grows
Of my surroundings.

I open pained eyes
And see
What I feared.

A blur, whizzing past
Too quickly for the eye
To discern,
And yet I know.

Some ingrained knowledge
Tells me I travel
Through a tainted, beautiful world,
Painted in many colours.