Gold is your soul

Gold is your soul

 

 

The drive there will be boring.

The arrival so momentous!

The disappointing greeters;

The sights not quite as expected.

The smell at times will be rancid.

The art of it all will be lost.

They will say “Welcome to The City of Romance!”

As you sip your hot coffee, whilst you worry about the cost,

Or getting lost…

 

 

…as you take in the views you will realise you have been left behind.

Nobody said anything; you were forgotten, not for the first time.

So you rush off to find the tail at the back of the line

And as you return to the flock, unnoticed by all except one,

You will relax once more and at last notice the sunshine…

 

 

…the noise of it all will not be music to your ears.

The occasional cliché will ride by unknown to you,

As you are so deeply engrossed in your list of fears,

Of not being what they expect you to be;

Or not enjoying or appreciating what they did;

Or not feeling what they expect you to feel…

What exactly is it this place is meant to make you feel?

 

 

Your heart will sink, as you begrudgingly sip your cold coffee drink

And the clouds will arrive overhead.  Merci!

Others will continue to talk,

As you walk hand in hand with your silence,

Through all the streets

And all the halls

And all the endless corridors,

Until you have nothing left…

 

 

…as you pass through the musicians like the spirit of winter,

All the accordion’s and violins will call out “Come back!”

Your soul will only paint a black and white photo,

Of a woman alone, in the cold of the night, street lights shining black.

Smoke rising from her cigarette holder and aging her beauty,

Death is called The Taker.

She smiles as The Joker;

She has become The Wrinkler.

Now her make up is running,

Her lipstick has been smeared,

You are staring into the reflection of a puddle,

With frizzy hair all around you,

Wishing just one person,

Somebody!

Anybody!

Was near.

 

 

All you will hear are the tears in their voices,

As they whisper their stories; their stories of love,

From beneath the branches of the boulevard of broken dreams.

All you will hear are the peace breaking shouts and screams

And the sound of old cars as their tires screech.

Real people in a real place with their own busy lives to lead.

This is not the Disneyland you imagined;

This is no place you asked to be.

Lost is the face of the love you hoped to meet.

Where do you find your own Rene?

 

 

At long last you arrive at the galleries

And further still will ride the disappointment,

As the Mona does not affect you, as they say “It does!”

But it doesn’t.

You think it is nice.  They will say “It is magnifique!”

You don’t think it is…

And you will continue as they speak only ‘their mind’;

Still never speaking, you casually pass on by

And leave Mona to all tourists.

You are the only purist.

 

 

You will not speak your truth because the truth is not heard.

All they hear are ‘their words’.

‘Their words’, without the feeling;

Just ‘their words’, without the hearing,

Which have all been said a thousand times or more before.

There is no more original…

Thought…

 

 

But then as you sit there alone eating a beget you brought for lunch,

You will at last find some peace and quiet.

Everyone else will have gone away to discover their own loves;

Their pictures within pictures,

Which they will all duplicate;

So trying.

Second rate, after second rate, after second rate,

But wait!…

 

 

…you put your food down, eyes glued to the image ahead.

You will rise to your feet, you will squint your eyes,

Just to be sure; just to be questionless.

But you will still be unable to truly see,

So forwards you will go.

Forwards into the unknown;

Carried along on feet of uncertainty.

 

 

Only video eyes watching you forget your phone.

It could have been stolen!

But it rests next to the broken bread.

All concerns have evaporated;

Shot away from your apple head,

For you have seen something nobody else has ever seen,

Within the lines of a Rene Magritte painting

And it is yours.

 

 

This moment,

This time,

This feeling has left you agog!

 Unable to write anything without consequence in an artificial blog.

Unable to use the What’s-app-messenger-application,

For you have become lost in the spirit of the master craftsman

And the muses in your head are all a-dance!

And chants can be heard, so you pick up your chalk.

Go on take a chance!

 

 

So with metamorphosis and the possession of your artistic soul,

You create your own master piece…

 

…as the silent smiles cast their eyes over its beauty,

You simply say its name is,

‘Gold is your soul.’

It is the perfect reminder of that which you wished to know…

 

Aren’t you glad you went?

Tell me, what did you see?

 

 

(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.