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.
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