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

maternal,

paternal,

sororal,

fraternal,

child-like,

affectionate,

disinterested,

hatred;

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

faces

adorning my walls,

I took them all down

and I feel

blank-

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

me.

_______________________

The picture referenced and at the top was originally made for the poem, The Second Half.

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