The ocean is my mirror,

and drops of rain just broken glass,

I am wearied now my harbour,

just a little closer if I could be brought.

I see the reflection of a painting old,

not unlike Dorian Gray’s I am told,

and I wonder if we all have potraits,

of pain and hurtful memories untold.

I squirm at the thought of a relived past,

I am scared of the presents’ certainity,

and the future’s hope destroys my faith,

and all the while intertwined.

I coexist in the potrait as said,

with the realms of color uncovered,

its a hue of greys and blacks and blues,

all shades of my hurt discovered.