Self Portrait
I like to paint myself. Should I be a face in the crowd?
Shouldn't I be the one fondly holding my head so high?
To be poised, I peep into my mirror, shedding her shroud.
My physique seems fit; why does my face show an unheard sigh?
Does this frown flicker around displeasure and depression?
Do these wrinkles on my face pose pessimistic feelings?
Does my grey hair signal wisdom? Or a stress expression?
Is my redness rake resilience reduction readings?
Rainbow colours I mix; why does yet peach predominate?
Unintended brown, grey, and black too immodestly spread
No place near master artists, my face does accommodate
Isn't self-portrait self's? It's, hence, I gladly go ahead.
I look imperfect, Wabi Sabi. This, in truth, am I.
Amn't I, yet, part of the perfect divine dwelling on high?
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