Before there was poetry, there was
Painting, though my hands have
Yet to rediscover it.

Yet another art taught as
Science: dismantled in a vain bid
To find its soul, portrayed as
Parts and processes so we
Couldn’t see what was there.

They gave me tools, but told me
I used them incorrectly.
They gave me a box to climb into,
And made me leave my heart outside.

Perhaps I was too young to
Juxtapose, to challenge, to subvert.
Perhaps I could not be trusted
To be unconventional, to make
My own mistakes, to see
If I had the strength to
Swim upstream. Perhaps
They did not realise
The river was a metaphor.

It was like they tried to
Save my body by stopping my heart.

But I refused to step into
The sausage machine; I refused
To build a wall. I refused
To pander to minds when I could
Nourish hearts by unleashing mine.

And now, two decades on, I am
Finally vindicated. I have achieved
Something infinitely more valuable
Than a piece of paper:
I move and am moved.

02/03/2017

Posted on 02/25/2017
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince