Driftwood.

Man is  born unto the  rainbow of opportunity.

The dazzling palate before him as he draws his  first infant breath.

Perfect and untainted, this tiny being as he  enters this vast world.

His only   purpose being his  very existence.

The sheer wonder of this colourful land in which he finds himself.

A world of moments, of sounds.

Of touch and scents.

Of visual exploration through those eyes that have yet to see horror. 

Skin that has yet to feel physical pain.

Soft and unspoilt as he nurses close to his mother.

Skin not yet a fortress behind which he will hide many ills.

A skin that will learn to shrivel in shame. 

Harden in the face of fear, like armour.

And wilt  in the absence of love.

Bloom  turning from rosy red to sepia.

For though man is born unto the rainbow.

The horror of humanity is diligent on his heel.

It’s hulking cape of  blackness, angst and despair.

As man destroys all he has been given in nature.

Turning his hand then against his fellow species. 

Born into a roiling sea of corruption, control  and greed.

Where the myriad of healing greens,

Of mysterious purples and creative oranges, lost forever. 

Their brilliance fading like an aged tapestry in sunlight. 

Turning to  browns and greys,

Leaching their beauty through a lifetime.

Until there becomes only  blackness.

Until his is the dark heart of despair.

Bleached and brittle like driftwood on a desolate beach.

Washed up and empty. 

The human condition and its agonies too much to bear.