With motion under my feet.
And the world passing on my left.
A day in limbo, different to all the rest.
Onboard that moving passage;
Destination wisely unclear.
Well, actually, it’s all on paper…
From the station to the gallery.
A friend beside; supposedly.
Though I never did know what he made off me.
Especially when the others waltzed along.
Coming from nowhere, seemingly.
Back then, it was difficult to build any bridge.
Harder when all I saw was my own incompetence.
Exhibitions, photography, and endless reveries.
That place, that person – me amongst the rest.
For I could not talk; For they could not listen.
And so I sat back, sulking in my own surreptitious admission.
Four hours. Minutes into years.
Time slipping by; no company but those exhibitions
A surrealist image of a man encased in dust.
A man left in the rain to wonder, and to rust.
A smile, shown every way but mine.
Laughter from all mouths but mine.
Joy from all minds but mine.
And I asked, why?
What have I royally fucked up this time?