-my portrait-

Why must the painter use brushes old and tarnished,
as if my soul has been cleansed with the tides of regret
and loss.

Why must my smile be stroked with the finest lines of pain,
a radient smile, encased in a canvas of black emptiness.
His strokes are slow and at times undecided,
he onlooks with an undisclosed question of what to do next.

Why is there a sky with a limit for a view,
as if my sence of place are these four textured boarders
empty of a plot.

Why is my world laid in the contrast between black and white,
as world that people say has much to offer,
yet his pallet speaks of two colors
a shaded light and a darkened world that seems so perplexed.

I look at my painting often, the one that hangs for all to see,
with the roughed brushes and rushed strokes
that came from all angles set from a low degree.
All questions surface, then are quickly laid to rest,
the world is a beauty, yet he painted me amonst this mess.

love...