Bereft of reason devoid of rhyme
we search yet for the door,
along the passages of time
for lives we lived before.
So far removed from the one who saw
the stars and the raindrops form,
watched lightning in awe we fall to the earth
without favour or grace, blinded by the colours
painted by the the human race.
The silvers of a nothingness, dark purples
of a deep unknowingness. This place.
All that could
nor ever should
Caught up in intrigues, ambitions, delight,
husbands, daughters, wives
and too busy for silence, or lasting insight
We slip between the moments of our lives.
Illustration Georgina Baillie