in some distant
far off
day
I imagine myself drifting through seas
of portraits
ripped from the seams of picture books
scattered helplessly
by a painter gone mad
lost images of frozen ponds
bartenders with wandering minds
and tall glasses of root beer floats with bubbles floating upwards
and as if following some cruel conductor
seasons cease to repeat themselves in some recognizable order
rain dripping unintentionally
leaves curling unknowingly
flowers blooming unconsciously
yet I know that this is the way it is
the old poet prophesied some unspoken rule
which continues along some brisk
grotesque trail
winding
dipping
scarring a fragile heart
I’m afraid that’s the way of change
