In a room full of wanderers
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.