There is a man who walks alone
his face as smooth as polished stone;
He carries with him on his back
a bag of memories made by none,
They wait with him, a burden
until their time is come.
All the colours of the rainbow
reside within his sack;
In his hand he carries a paintbrush,
and as he wanders, he paints us.
Every moment we live is a
memory on our shoulders,
Every brushstroke weighs us down.
Some are only feathers,
and they help us to fly…
But others are thick stripes of pain
they linger like a whip’s harsh stripes:
again, and again.
Every layer is another year,
every year a different shade
Some are bright strokes of dreams fulfilled,
But others are dark washes
of tears and blood.
Every man is a canvas,
Every life unique;
He paints us as he sees us
And we live out his dreams.