Slides
Flicker
Past,
And
Track
The
Start,
Time
A
Tunnel,
Every
Canvas
My
Heart,
Leading
Back
To
Where
And
When
I Was
Then,
Color
Flowing
From
My
Brush
In
A
Heady
Rush.
Numbered,
Dated,
Catalogued,
Dearly
Loved,
And
Sometimes
Hated,
Reluctantly
Parting,
Always
Starting
Again,
Seemingly
Without
End.
The
Images
Change
And
Rearrange,
And
Then,
The
Projections
End,
All
Of
It
A
Lark,
Seen
Once
More
In
The
Dark.