by Camilla Jean Welsch
If only life could be like art,
then I’d take from my mind
a painting that takes place on a city hill
over a bay,
at the dusk hour.
The sky is a blurred pink-grey,
and contrasted against it
are heavy, hanging traffic lights,
in a vibrant, neon-green wave,
going down the hill,
strung up magically somehow,
in a way only an artist can do.
Yes, it is an easy flow, no strain,
at the softest moment of day,
and there is nothing more tranquil
than heading for water at this hour,
But this image is the preface
of a wish,
as I drift into a light, late sleep,
and the precursory analgesic I need
for the feelings
of sad reality
and imminence of human loss,
which I can only truly experience in advance
by heading into a state of unconsciousness,
where it is all laid out.
Life is not a green wave,
and I am only getting older now.
But as I dream before I wake, I see myself and I see my own eyes — how is that possible?
They are shining and grey as if the dew itself rested there,
and I still look rather young.
I am smiling.
This is the way you see me.
It is more important than the way I see you.
For, in my life, I can really see nothing at all,
the way I was meant to.
Only you can do that.