You seem to think in black lines
that slide away from front to back,
running towards a distant skyline
pink yet delicately smudged with grey.
Rushing towards your rubicon,
a vanishing spot on the event horizon.
You no longer appreciate natural magic,
it pales in the glare of techno wizardry.
You drop toys of imagination and innocence,
replacing them with lipstick and lies,
dancing with deviousness and disgrace.
When you reach your precious target,
will it be to look longingly back.
To sigh and wonder why
did you not appreciate the colours,
or get your face painted with butterflies.
To lick the mixing bowl of childhood clean,
savouring those blissful summer evenings.
When the worse of your worry lies
in the start of term, come september.