The Picture Without A Face

Walking a thousand steps

in either direction

would get me

to the moon,

if that’s what I would call

the place

I landed.


When I look to the sides

and the left of me,

at my different

art periods

I see the faces of those

who are by now

over a thousand steps away.


Like shooting stars,

my muses are like bright flashes.

Sometimes they stay

for less than a day,

other times,

they last years,

only to fade away

when the dint of time

begins to fill.


Towards them

I feel









a rainbow

of emotion.

That’s what I used

to color

their pages.


When a new muse comes

to take the place of the old

I take down the old pictures

and fill their places

with new.

But currently,

there are no pictures of people’s


adorning my walls,

I took them all down

and I feel


not grey

just lacking possession

of somebody else’s

watercolor set

to play with.


Only one of my own piece’s

is left on my wall.

She has no face,

and orange skin,

with turquoise hair.

She stands on a cliff

overlooking clouds,

I did not draw her

intending her to be anyone,

but if I choose to call her so,

I guess she could be



The picture referenced and at the top was originally made for the poem, The Second Half.

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