Unique

She is unique It’s her eyes And though I know it’s just a painting They speak to me She’s alive. It’s her hair That immaculate orange-red coloring It’s unnatural The mark of her unique Refining all that is pure It’s her lips Though which lack expression are so full and feminine Soft and detailed Viable — Die-able Lips She is unique. Mighty. For the display of colored scar marks from her artists’ brush Disintegrating the flesh on her flawless face She’s worlds apart. Wandering through dimensions Reaching souls through oils and acrylics All forms of dimension defied For a goddess whose eyes scream We are not all alive The pain and terror in her glossy stare signals my tear ducts to swell And the orange in the flames of her hair Sparkle distractedly at a glare She trans-illuminates through my soul The longing for her I want to let go For I’m unaware of what it holds Is this true Or is the meaning behind this Her less minuscule. Her reflection transfixed to my heart And in the deepest crevices of paint My soul unfolds the things She cannot say My eyes cry the tears She cannot make My mouth smiles in the way that hers doesn’t form I as the spectator impose on all her secrets, colors, impurities. She is unique.