Well, I lost the plot,
what I got was not alot,
and rest was wasted.
I sat counting coins,
pennies of a kind use once,
many years ago.
Do they really know,
the struggle that they cause us,
and repeated work.
And we build them up,
like sand castles built on hope,
that’s washed in despair.
The music has stopped,
and we look but there’s no chairs,
so we all sit down.
I am painting more,
a little dab here or there,
and a scene appears.
The scenes just appear,
a shoreline or sinking ship,
washed in angry waves.
A forest appears,
out of a mass of green paint,
with trunks and branches.
