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Poem


In my portrait of life   the
    palette began in pigments
of blue, red and yellow,
         but with each stroke,
my horizons slowly dissolved   into
  mustard, muddy brown 
and burnt orange.

Not everything you portray 
    upon a canvas is mutually accepted,
so my soul remained subjective
and my heart   abstract.

As I collect dust upon my shoulders,
     I wish I was a painting  never painted.
Visibility has turned into a veil,
    resulting in stubborn invisibility,
so everything is an illusion
     lingering in a black hole       absorbing
the conspicuous.

I know I will regret not expressing   one day
  but bitter roots remain rooted deep   into the earth.
  
I don't want to hide
  but  protect what breeds inside.
I'm afraid someone may look deeper 
   into this façade    where time forgets the truth. 

My hands resemble a box of nothingness,
     as hues fade from indigo     into charcoal,
with pastels infusing with the darkness.
     My heart is an ocean 
       beneath a motionless surface.

Not everyone can view the world 
   like Van Gogh's eyes,
where the longer you stare 
   the more you become aware.
In blind visions    a 'driftwood' mind    wanders 
    between mental blankness and
the angst of actuality,
               all that survives is blackness.

        If fate was fair 
then we would all view   and be viewed
        in soft pastels of peach,
 sapphire and lilac.

The harder I attempt   to find myself,
  I lose more  than I thought I would gain.

At the end  upon the edge
  in the last exhale    all that is left 
will be the silence after an echo.

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