Just like the scrawled black birds
that panic in the chaos
of Vincent's yellow swirling sky
Just like Zimmerman's spoken lyrics
that pluck and worry
at your liquid conscience
Just like the man
who walked
a hundred miles
only to realise
he has lost his motivation
Just like the thunderous chords
and orchestral stabs
of that midnight concerto
you still cannot recall
Just like a profound
parable of the Christ,
half glimpsed and only partly understood
Just like the Bard's immortal words
that are infused with unintended meaning
Just like the homeless man
with the thousand yard stare,
sitting like a statue on the old park bench.
Just like your dark eyes
gazing off into a grey sunset
where today's hopes were unfulfilled
but tomorrow's dreams
are still alive
and wishable
Just like the brown tinged petals
that have scattered, fallen
from the bride's bouquet
Just like the decaying wood
on the old garden gate
and the patterns discerned
in the peeling curls of its paint
Just like the imagined faces
in the white vapour
of the boiling,
ever fleeting clouds
Just like the tears you shed
when hopelessly, you tried
to make your own way
Just like you and your dreams,
your hopes, your fears
Just like me ... and mine
Just,
like me
Steve Wheeler © 22 May, 2021
Photo © Steve Wheeler
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