contemplating the movement called life.
Covered in lights,
shades conscience of rays,
The self-portrait that claims it is the reflection made in thy image.
Pain in the instant,
creased in the wrinkles.
Covered in the canvas,
let’s call it space.
Let’s call the moments we pass by each other, fate.
Waiting for you to tell me you have seen my face.
Please tell me you recognize my name.
Keeping my cool,
but I don’t know if I can keep this,
Charade up much longer.
Self-portraits of a man I don’t recognize
Running from someone who sleeps when I sleep,
weeps when I weep,
and eats the hearts of anyone.
Brave enough to get close?