And I shall fall in the hollows of the great pretender to be swallowed by water-colours...chained in their vanity the road to Jack is lost so - come forth the sweet pretender wend you words through the passages of past master’s echo - I will follow the shadowy intrusions you create within my mind - And cry for Jack Empty needles stick to basic principles of sculpted pretty pictures - where is a girl to dream... when every image painted is over-sized and details blurred every word written grabs needily for attention - those who read can see the imitation of their little lives - flushed out and waved about and they all think Yes…that’s just how I feel And poetry is lost