My first poem.

Dancing and jubilantly flying past
the happy hues through the frame;
In a blur or in squiggly lines
But always keeping their tone light,
Whizzing away through the night.

Viewed through the screen of fog
they're even more beautiful.
Time passes, my eyes stay fixed,
Seldom tearing themselves apart
from the frame, anchored to their dance.

The colours, my only companions now
diversify in rhythm and pattern -
Attempt to console a desolate soul.
All in vain for the fog holds strong
A quiet melody lost in chaotic noise.

Eventually it ends, as all good things do
The light is lost; there's no more colour.
The grey picture in the frame moves ever so slowly;
prolonging the pain and tightening the shackles
around my lungs, heart and soul.

Then the pictures halt;
the journey has ended.
My presence is acknowledged.
I exit the car leaving behind the pictures;
The colours in the frame and the memories from the past.
The fog flows free down my cheeks.