A Painting

Foggy outlines vanishing into one another,

Someone must have confused the colours,

For they forgot to bloom and lost their hue,

Like a faded photograph, too damaged to undo.

You can see frost hidden blue and what used to be a pretty green,

Now, it's gone and paled into pastel as a glorious has been.

There used to be passionate red in there,

That faded into an inert pink dong the line somewhere.

The sunshine yellow of happiness slightly dulled,

But the grey clouds never took over, never fully.

Some parts scratched out the canvas itself;

Memories too tired to be restored and so beyond our help,

And yet you cannot call it ugly or sad;

For like an antique, there's story to be had

Behind the scene that is painted before your eyes,

A story barely two decades long, too young for goodbyes.

That story is the one that shines through broken scene,

Someday it will be finished, if only in a dream.

And I wonder as I look at it, on the verge of decay,

What will people think of it, when it sees the light of day?