THE PROTEAN VANDAL by J.T.A. Reddy

I see the silver wings of future minds 

That man desires; a start, to find, to plan.

If you could see the folded paper’s layers eight

You’d blink, and they would press your destiny erased. 

I shan’t go tell where a child is made,

Not whether power truly lies or stands, 

But I can tell where is made the man; 

Only from child the man may rise - and likewise -

Long ago and strokes alone. My picture of youth!

How steeped divine and wroth of truth. 

If paint made the man, I’d know if you 

Were real or trapped in dimensions two

And cut the canvas of your watercolour cell. 

O, wings of silver flap to life, raised alone but well, 

I know you lie. Towards a perfect lie no more

Correct than one constructed poor, no more!

Let this child-made-man let paintings hang

And subjects, objects, resist this sheen allure. 

I smash the walls of paint’s delight

(To set ablaze with reality)

(To slay regret and my deity)

And see you breathe, as I, our mercurial light.