And it is somewhere in this
great expanse of life
that we find ourselves lost.
Floating, spinning, with no recourse,
splattered on the side of the world.
We are paint waiting to dry.
We do not know the finished piece
till veins run arid, and tears can no longer precipitate;
till our eyes are blinded by experience, and the paint drips down our faces.
This is all we have waited for:
to stand at that gate
and see our lives mural once more.