Looking in the mirror
for imperfections
the wild hair,
a stray eye,
destiny's inheritance.
We lean in
to magnify the flaws.

When the real mirror
is coming to lunch,
ringing up our groceries,
delivering our mail,
returning home.

Alone....... we go out
in search of the mirror.
We  never stop looking.
we  never give up
our quest
for our love.

I melt like butter
each time his eyes
settle on me

He smiles and waves
like we're buddies
just coursemates

What he doesn't know
is my gallery is full
of his photos

And the last pages
of my notebooks
are filled with poems

For him, to him

.

It has been found that given enough time
failure will find this destined loser
lurking in gallery tints
and water color fault lines

semi gloss replaced by flat

Painting abstract nothings
on a canvas made of words
Broken brushes stain the existing
balance with a voice that collects the remnants

speaking tarnished silver when silence should be golden

Pop art wastelands of dotted balloons
float above the ground where his face falls,
shamed and hidden, in plain sight
with eyes holding quarters of bygone years

melting clocks keep time with his idiocy

Impressionists laugh at his existence
in muted tone chuckles and turpentine snickers
Stretched on easels of dislodged glances
with splattered smocks tied in double knots

one size fits all

This palette of mixed memories
resting on mainstream notions, waits
for the end is sure to come
finding him alone with an empty imagination

and nothing but drop cloth dreams

Words
Spoken
Freely
Are
The
Sharp
Stones
Thrown
At
The
Face
Of
Harmony