The Painter

 

Walking home through the opaque,

Maybe this is what we need,

Or sell our things from a car boot,

You’re at the back and in the lead.

 

Just a bubble in a blitz-war,

But every painter knows his paints,

I’m barely breaching the grey shore,

It’s neither freedom nor it’s feigned.

It’s just a holiday within a holiday,

You’ve been chasing your father too long,

It’s just an hour away, but within another day,

You can check-in your cases while we all carry on.

And I don’t know where I’m going,

And I don’t know where I’ve been.

Feel it rain when I’m underground,

Ashamed each day is the same,

So I lose sight of why I’m walking,

They say the painter never knows his frame,

 

It’s just a balcony among a sea of balconies,

We’ll write our postcards at the airport out,

It’s just another dream but within a stranger’s dream,

All I’ll need to get through another drought.

And I don’t know where I’m going,

And I don’t know where I’ve been.