Portrait

Breath, breath,

O portrait black,

With blind eyes do whisper,

Laugh now, whilst the paint is wet,

For once the lines are cold,

And the hand of reason stays,

Your smile shall freeze,

As you would cease, to exist, to evolve,

For on the threshold of perfection,

The mirror reflects no more,

But resigns in destitute,

Having been deemed futile.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s