Little Yellow Squares


Little yellow squares,

Above me.


My pen slides, 

A ghost, 

Maker of waves 

That ripple and wash, 

Forming new lines and curves 

In soft sand.


Moth wings, 

Butterflies and rose petals 

Pressed for an age in Time's rattling cage.


The windows are black

And shadows mere reflections of

Stories never told.


Inside this metal cage, 

Lights shift between colour 

and the eternal pitch night.


Yet, determined like a daydreamer,

It goes

Deep into the night until

Distant lights on the horizon, 

Tell of life's full possibilities and past 


The obtained, the broken, the unrealised 

And the lost.


"I lost my lips somewhere here," 

I hear her say. "Between 

The velvet seats of this train." 


Her voice is woven, 

The roots of an ancient tree,

Through my mind. 


Sea silk sewn into a fine organic tapestry.

Invisible, yet plain to see. 

In dreams of truth, 

We glimpse a rare reality. 


The Composition with the Train by Olga Rozanova (1910)