existing
Confused is she who believes she knows
herself. A splotch in the artist's worst work yet
calls herself a masterpiece. Not even the
artist notices her mistake.
The vibrant dark red blood of a swatted mosquito
creates the edges of her face, standing out
in the sea of white, green and a sky blue.
A simple coffee spill shades in her eyes,
a simple dirt spot on the canvas, her iris.
She is hung up beside a poor copy of
Bar at the Folies-Bergère. Not more than a
pair of wandering eyes grazed over her and the clammy
artist.
But that blink, the extra second spent analyzing that
crown of hair, meant to her,
that she was the centerpiece.
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