Childish Curiosity

Little girl
pink frock,
touches Death:
a morbid
old man,
ever so
lightly
with the
wondering sparkling
wand of
infantile
curiosity.

poem by Ballerina With Fins
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Waxed dreams

Broken crayon
grimy orange,
Smudges of
dirt, of love,
of hope of angst.

Smooth, waxed
long-ago childish
dreams.
Colourful, vibrant
(now dulled)
memories of
candy-luminous
clouds and infantile
simplicity.

Broken dreams.

Or a broken
red crayon,

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poem by Ballerina With Fins
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Progress (a concrete jungle)

Cloudy green
Lush Forest, made
of the stuff
dreams are made of,
a jungle of
culture and
heritage-

now a
city.
Dull grey
buildings, wailing
cries of bustling
cars in the
distance.

Skyscrapers, Skyscrapers
scrape
the
sky.

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poem by Ballerina With Fins
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Faex Populi

Around me is a mass of morphing colours;
pink black white pink black
Around me is a dull shopping paradise; a graveyard,
subfusc, dead people with dead minds
scrambling around aimlessly,
wandering in that straight line,
to nothingness, somber.

They are all alive; but it is far too late.
They are owned by these terriying neon colours,
and their crude surroundings. But then again, they still say, let's go shopping. Because it's what they do best.

Like a shop window, entrancing, untoucable.
Wondrous, splendiful.
Dull, dying, dead.

I wear my old Tuesday socks on Friday; and
they say I'm going crazy.

poem by Ballerina With Fins
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The Colours.

She ponders, by the window,
the mellow-honey seraphic child
the irreproachable child
the intangible princess child

amongst the colours
engulfing her whimsically
in a paintwork
of jejune rainbows.

Beguiled, you stumble
into her air of intrigue whereupon
you find that behind those
sugar-spun curls and
fairy peach complexion,
she has no eyes.

Blindness! An intangible web
of colours; where longing
meets beauty. She may be blind

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poem by Ballerina With Fins
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