Saturday, 26 January 2013

Fancy that



I imagine a desert white and vast
Stretching all around me from no end to the next
And in my hand, a palette, of colours many
And a brush to paint a world I wish with

I paint the ground like the sky and the sky like the sea
I paint meadows full and empty and turn them to a city
I paint men tiny and small; I paint me a lord of them all
I paint me a world I rule, with no modicum of reality

Reality, what be this word, that the many want
How can I define what it means in truth?
What irony it is to find truth behind reality
While all along reality is the puppeteer of truth

I find myself after, but a while
Dissolving into a world born from my brush
I find the portraits more real in my colour
I find the colour more real than my skin

Sitting, smiling on my throne in the city
I revel at the preciseness of my strokes
Until the corner of my eye chills my spine,
And I turn to a slither that I thought I saw

Again and again, I constantly turn
Till I turn no more to have to see them move
The entire ground, the skies and the seas
The trees, the cities and the throne under me

I see now the desert that once lay before
Is but a ground of serpentine renditions
Truths defined by another’s reality, seeping into mine
Each painted by the colours of another's fancy

The enormity takes, but a sunrise to settle
But for all to be clear the night must fall
In complete darkness one will lay awake
Unaware of what will happen, in the darkness of doubt

I fight the failing colours by painting fiercely
I fight the coming darkness by running to the light
But like many a wise man have said before
I cannot touch the horizon or see the colour of a moonless night

I cower, I cry, I question the painter who painted me to being
Eventually I spend a spent night, resigned to my state
But I wait for the light to return in secret
And hope to see my world unslithering, unscathed

A watched night does not dawn
And so in an uncertain perpetuity I await the dawn
And see if the world I had painted still remains
Praying that it does, my heart strings tugged by the what ifs

I would be no closer to knowing reality
Whether my world survives or not, I would but have left with me
Either my reality for one more night to endure
Or another clear canvas, for me to redefine