In a room full of wanderers

The wanderer paints the scene

In a tremor. Straight lines

Become waves and waves

Become the blood’s

Natural way of flowing

Through his veins.

It senses the soul next door

Roaming the London streets

With a pen and paper,

Filling the pages with an outpouring

Of pain turned into rage turned

Into the apathetic stage

Of life as it is lived

When it is lived past thirty.

To hide in the forest

That decimates the heart

This particular wanderer

Wears a long and disgusting

Beard with long, greasy hair

And an oddly fashionable

Blue shirt.

The wrinkles are spreading across

This valley of a face

In its reproductive glory

Like the branches of a tree

Day by day by day

But the wanderer in question

Wanders with a soul

So young still

And so fragile

It has found

Its own picture of Dorian

It has left itself vacant in the sun

While the world stares

At the painting

Of a man

Trapped in a frame.