Passage
Passage
When you are painting your own verse
Do not hold the brush of others
It will hurt the image
The same colors will speak a strange language
The canvas will appear distant
All bits will tongue an alien speech
This is not me, the work will screech
From within the frame
I cannot emerge
Singing the other song
The hired piece suffers halts as it moves along
With all that is confirmed, known and done.
You may be a stream
Which falls not knowing who it will meet
Or a flower that hollers
Without a clue it will please whom
The dew drowns in the depth of the dust
Its certain death it can only trust.
Your place may be beneath others
Like a blade of forgotten grass
Still it is you, your text, your own words
You will dance in the absence of watching eyes
Experiences insignificant will shine in time
Your own expressions will come into light
The poem of life you write
With actions black and white
Is all that matters
In what your life offers.
Others might have their own ways to recover
Not in others looks you cower
They’re beyond right or wrong, nor with power
Path you ceaselessly pass
Stream within the two winsome banks
Your own flow you alone discover.