one: two-three

A face peers back from the frame,
a twisted face with slitted eyes
and upturned lips.
He stares and stares till my sight pares
afraid of what tears at my heart's cares.
Yet he still stares
with intent beyond those eyes- yet not his own
with grim hatred in his eyes
and abyssal pain behind those blacks
O! What a wicked sight!
O! What a revolting image!

I match my eyes with his
and my lips with his;
they're already set.
And I rub those wretched eyes,
and I lift those dreadful lips,
but only smudges on his face.
I strive and strive yet he remains.
So, I bring my tubes of paint
- watercolor and acrylic,
and those matted, crackling brushes
to turn thoses eyes to brights
and those lips to whites.

He stares back.
Bright, empty eyes, and white, grave smile.


Turning, I forget his face.

October 8, 2021
trying to do