My mind is a sea of unsynchronised waves.
They don’t rise up in unison
Or fall together with grace; my waves Mexican-wave.
My mind is a room of incomplete art
I should write a novel, or compose a symphony.
Instead I paint songs
My heart is a wood of bluebells.
My soul, an Indian sky
But my mind is a sea of unsynchronised waves
Inside I’m painting songs
Bridget from Ireland
