On a canvas filled with the lucid brush of the bright current stream
Fragmented strokes of faint nostalgia paint over the entropy of memories
Sometimes with the laughter of my childhood
To remember why I loved and who I lost
And tax my once innocent slate with the dark etches of growing up
Yet, in splatters of colour and black dye
I find the pleasure of reason and life
And a pallet with still so much to bleed