I Draw Myself, In Reflections

They placed me upon the mantel-shelf,
a mannequin of artificial feeling
with hands bleached clean of sin,
and palms as supple plastic,
my eyes lacking reflection;
to become just another collection
of yester-stars.


I sought the pieces of my jigsaw,
each part a mismatched feeling
such that words were left scattered
and the sentence tore to threads:

  there is little
        salvation in reality,
  yet even less
        in replications.



I thought of life as an allusion,
and the acrylics of religion faded,
absorbed in the faith's canvas
as dyed fabric clings to color,

there is tilting beauty in the hues
ever steady in ethical image
as the firm of hill-tops against sky,
and the backdrop ivory,
    against water.



There is an alliteration in living,
'hope' repeating itself so often
and we unbalance in trepidation,
to ousted companionship.



Somewhere above a clock has ticked
and a hand has clocked three,
the spring unwinds and chimes in rhyme,

tick tock,

  tick tock,

      tick tock,

each second beckons me more,
towards understanding
and yet,
    there is little urge.



They took me off from my stead
and tossed me in the garbage can,
depicting such irrational feelings
yielding truths that were callous,

and to all that I turned an ear deaf,
I listened their every whisper
and each word they uttered
came biting back;

    such candor nips forever,
  taking more than just will -
  like the closet door they opened.   



I doodled with paper and pen,
each line a break from reality
and lettered verbs to be felt,
with the sympathy they deserved,

this is art's true form:
raw passion that needs a hand,
from fingers to draw from
to shoulders for support,

        as voracious love
        that a cupid instills,
  uncaring of its arrow
  and where it bends. 



Vitality turns a leaf in my book,
fate dominating each verse,
as falsehood lies on my lips
daring for truth to challenge;   

I was forlorn in the wilderness,
heart aching for perfection,
and yet I remained human
with each flaw my success,
and finality deemed to never come.



They soiled every rhyme I strung
and I sang in chiding ecstasy
to the hues of the night,
whereby the moonlight filtered,
as sensual bliss;

  inspiration breathed to me,
  a new chance of a womb
  as I found aspiration,
  in every hollow comma.



My art is wrought with emotion,
and the quill in my hand
has played my flute at seasons,
and near autumn's early image,
I regain conscious refrain

  there is a place where poets cry
  with words from heart's allure,

where lips move in rhythm
of the words I carve.