The Portrait

This is a two-parter since I missed posting yesterday. There's a poem that goes with this one anyway, so that can be make-up for yesterday. This is a self portrait of sorts: not directly representative in appearance, more metaphorical that anything.

The Portrait

Inside the cavity of the mind,

a wall; empty, and collecting time,

save for a solitary vision of mine;

captured.

A face: worn and stricken by strife,

with eyes that have seen more than should been seen in a life;

beacons of wisdom, keen as a knife...

yet...growing dull.

Color: bright and all around;

blue, the shade that floats above the ground,

commanding all to be joyful, proud:

never once peering to see within.

For why the facade of happiness,

when inside endless seas, never at rest:

aching, breaking, cold as death,

whose fingers are never far.

Still...the smallest conflagrations flick,

borne on wisps of frigid wind; thick,

like precious stronghold doors, which,

when locked, provide hope.

These: the smallest lights in crowded dark...

is there worth in searching for the distinctive mark

they leave upon even the blackest of hearts?

Perhaps.

Tell me: what is a man without, at least, a glimmer

of some bright promise, though made in Winter,

will cease his frame from becoming any thinner

than the lamppost that it is.

For inside every man there is flicker; a flame,

despite its size, can warm his core, however lame

it feels to his name: HIS core it will remain,

and his choice of what to make of it.

A verdict set; the face was and always will be mine,

whether young as child or cragged as the miser with his glass of wine,

bleary but coherent as the tower's chime,

sounding its purpose.

What will be forged with the seconds that remain intact

is a choice that lies with me, either at my worst or at my best,

it is still my choice at that.

I only pray I do not waste it.

Artwork © 2012 Jeremy Owen

'The Portrait' © 2012 Jeremy Owen