Painted Magic

A short poem I wrote for my boyfriend who was entering college.

Caricatures of life, still pictures of the distorted, flawed,

Versions of desirable reality. Sketched hopes,

The untroubled sleep of the child. Lies, sweet,

Laced with good intention. Spoon-fed reality,

Small doses of unwanted medicine to thwart the ill.

But the sickness comes, with age all the same.

Capped bottles of pink truth, hard to swallow.

The acceptance of fallacy, the conditioning of loss.

Vibrancy dims, fingers grasping at the intangible.

Until it can be touched, tongues stick to the roofs of mouths,

Words lost in foreign throats not adequate to transmit them.

Life breathed into the ink of dreams, splotched color,

Tainted revival and the water runs off the page.

Silent drips of promise, defying containment,

Stain the upturned palms of the fortunate, the blessed,

The few to receive the Gift. Promise is art.

Hope is magic. Keys to childhoods lost or locked away.

Spring forth the doors of possibility, endless and beckoning.

The hand extends and magician and artist lace fingers,

Dance to the beat of toil, the rhythm of change.

Author's Note

It's not about what you can do, it's about doing what you can efficiently. Elle Collins