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The Painter's Lair

Time is like a painting.

It records every colour,

and every stroke.

The painting can be held

in your treasure chest of

backwards ticking dreams

yet the making

cannot be yours to rewind

no matter how many times

your intrepid, terrified footprints pass

the painter's lair.

And this is the knowledge

that keeps your starving slippers

from the stair.

The stroke of midnight

that keeps the dainty keepsake

from its pair.

This is brush of fate

that keeps the searching painter’s scent

from your hair.

The temporal muse's call

that all earthbound artists

must forbear.

For hearts may beat

but what they seek

is no longer there.


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