Painted in Many Colours

It Beckons

It beckons.

Long, tired motions

As if underwater.

I see its purpose

And yet I move closer.

Hypnotised.

Awake.

A voice from some

Far-off room

Calls to me.

I ignore it, blindly.

Failure.

It hangs in the balance.

Fear, subdued by laughter,

The calm before

Proverbial storm.

I shall weather it;

I have thus Far.