The Image Is.....
Po' Wit.
Stagnant stares into
portrait mirrors,
tell artist eyes
what to draw on
their empty pages.
The image so sharp,
the retinas bleed,
and red iris's sprint down
gaping cheeks,
jumping off chins' cliff edges
to a suicidal puddle
on wood-stain valley bottoms.
The image so confusing,
mouths struggle to
let lips reunite as
awe sknots in tangled tongues
and hangs itself on a
uvula noose
over dried tonsel valley bottoms.
The image so deceiving,
questions formulate but
remain chained and locked
behind thick enamel walls and
wander the cell blocks
of the minds prisoned thoughts.
Stagnant stares into
potrait mirros,
tell artist eyes
to scribble masterpieces
on their empty pages
filling with illustrations
and the literature...
An autobiography:
The Image is
Me.