The vision :
(dreams torn, torn)
A picture came to me in the darkness of night,
Of myself in ten, twenty years time;
Worn out with the struggle, weak, and no longer able to fight,
Finally giving way to the forces ranged against me,
Sad and grey and defeated.
The sketch :
(in harsh charcoals)
This dream that came to me,
Was as though I had finally and sadly, late in the day,
Lost my innocence.
The Canvas :
(Life, existence)
I had been high-minded and apologetic,
Full of enthusiasms I didn’t quite mean,
And guilt’s I didn’t understand.
And now I stand looking at the man I could’ve been.
In Oils :
(violent colours)
I had spent years thrashing around in confusion
As drowning men pull each other under,
As wave after wave we are swept away;
Our cries obscured by the thunder.
My signature :
(...)
See my writing on the wall,
There’s no one to catch me when I fall;
But Death was on my side:
Suicide.
Sep 13, 2020
Sep 13, 2020 at 9:57 PM UTC
The vision :
(dreams torn, torn)
A picture came to me in the darkness of night,
Of myself in ten, twenty years time;
Worn out with the struggle, weak, and no longer able to fight,
Finally giving way to the forces ranged against me,
Sad and grey and defeated.
The sketch :
(in harsh charcoals)
This dream that came to me,
Was as though I had finally and sadly, late in the day,
Lost my innocence.
The Canvas :
(Life, existence)
I had been high-minded and apologetic,
Full of enthusiasms I didn’t quite mean,
And guilt’s I didn’t understand.
And now I stand looking at the man I could’ve been.
In Oils :
(violent colours)
I had spent years thrashing around in confusion
As drowning men pull each other under,
As wave after wave we are swept away;
Our cries obscured by the thunder.
My signature :
(...)
See my writing on the wall,
There’s no one to catch me when I fall;
But Death was on my side:
Suicide.
Written many years ago in London
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