“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.” – William Blake
Weathered the would that frames this perception,
once painted with optimism, long worn.
How bright the ideals of youth, now blurred,
colours stripped, raw intention bared –
Life mocks these aged perspectives
old structures fail, light dims with neglect
Still the heart beats solid, hope like putty
sticking to the sills, solidifying half-truths.
How deluded am I, trapped within walls
defined by out of focus panes, separated
From a reality that would behold me
fragmented or whole, and who will ever know
Have not the wherewithal to strip back
old mindsets, repaint the trimmings
Am content to dwell behind screens
of my own making, distorted but secure.
(Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 