In the hall of mirrors,
you’ll find them playing rock, paper, scissors..
till each reflection is revealed,
true colours that were concealed,
splashed against glass by the sunshine
a trick of the light
they came tumbling down,
when the image had been found,
to be like nothing more than the sound,
of an instrument in a band,
playing a melody to direct the stories painted by words written by hand,
not the story in and of itself,
which bridged the gap between heaven and hell.
an artist’s way to ring a bell,
alerting the populous without the desire to sell,
Like metaphors they tell it well,