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.