The rage is real, I think. Bruised lip, clenched fists. A Portrait of a *******. Ink slipped and left to fade, A visage that only we create. Born from all we know, All we feel, All that pains, Every manifested sorrow.
We would do well not to dwell Upon that which we can't control. But as the years age and grow The certain turns into the unknown. Curtains close yet start the show As the actor dies off stage, Alone.