I was never any good at art when I was a child: I think I stopped actually looking at things and relied on too many pre-conceptions about what I expected to see. For example, shadows were black. Well, I suppose I thought they might be different shades of grey, but they certainly weren’t blue, pink and orange.I suspect painting black shadows is a beginner’s mistake, like using clichés in poems instead of trying to look beyond the expectations and see things anew.
This poem isn’t new, but its title seems to make it relevant.
Foolish, we dream ourselves perfect;
well-practised in grief
we’re attempting to live in a world
where love is time’s thief.
Our aims are simply not worth it:
we think we aspire
to greatness, with spirits so small
our perspective’s a liar.
Faith? There’s just no way to work it –
it leads us astray;
the world’s scientifically ordered:
it’s useless to pray.
Although our illusion’s perverse, it’s
so hard to give in.
Our nights are deep dreams of perfection,
our days lived in sin.