Canvases of Dreams

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.



About Dagenn

I'm just a persony sort of person. I write things, and sometimes, I put them places for other people to see. I like poetry and shortish stories best. Sometimes I write sad stuff, but I'm actually usually a pretty happy person. Come say hi! View all posts by Dagenn

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