I have seen a man
watching me stare
at him
with a sense of loss
through a
shiny shiny
mirrored window.
Once I slept
besides a red telephone and
hung up on the
human race.
Again, I have seen that man
watch me stare
at him
with a sense of loss
but this time
through a
less shiny
mirrored window...


- Samar Charulingah Godfrey

I was scared
And
I was scared straight

I was torn
And
I was a tornado

I was the pain
And
I was the painter

I was ******
And
I was ****** right

I was just
And
I was just enough

I was dependent
And
I was dependent on nothing

I was true*
And
I was truly ashamed

I was used
And
I was used to it

I see a canvas behind your eyes
I see the artist in disguise
I see the portrait made so no one else will see
I see dimly lit sands and beyond a vast sea
I see your palette--black and grey
I see, as we all do, the bright paints you display
I see in your eyes your dripping color
I see that you don't trust a single other
I see, because the eyes interpret the heart
I see, and realize you are just like me
I see, and I long to remedy

I had seen a painting, entitled,
“The Portrait Of A Poet”, it was
perfect in its beauty, and yet
still, the viewer had not known
the secrets it held, the thorns
encasing the roses in the
garden surrounding her,
the book she held with
her heart’s song, the
symphony she veiled
In the sea of eyes
flowing from her
feet with faces
of a blank canvas,
seeking the color
of love, when they
gazed upon the
painting, they
did not see in
her eyes, the
one who saw
the beauty and
light in everything
within the greatest
suffering, they
looked past the
bird with the
shining wings
who lived in the
cage, she was
unaware of
her luminous
features as
her colors
were painted,
for the truth
of her lies
within the
flower of
purity,
touched
by the
moonlight,
she sits with her
demure hands
rested, gentle
and soft with
the gaze of
reverie, the
dreamer with
the heart
of the ocean,
opening her
embrace,
she seeks
nothing and
receives all,
the woman
with a soft
fringe
touching
her temple
once stroked
with her slender
fingers the
pages unseen
within the
books of
her enamor,
she was
enchanted
by fairytales,
and captivated
by the magic
unnoticed by
the ones who
possess them,
as they spoke
in cafes and
kissed within
the homes of
wondrous,
hidden places,
she saw the
rising stars
as he whispered,
“I love you”,
the man who
loved her
and longed
for her roses,
as he gazed
upon her
portrait,
as he
opened
as the
doors,
and they
sighed
in the union
of the swan
and the lover.

These words are fingerprints;
A momento of the fleeting seconds
Where I overflow with emotion
Like a glass under a faucet.

True, these portraits are usually
A collection of broken mirrors,
But let me write when I am howling
At the moon in my car
As the man on the radio makes love
To his microphone
And the glow of streetlights light
The path home.
Let me write when the floors are clean,
Lemon cleaner and sunlight pouring in,
And I'm trimming the ends of flower stalks
For a vase that paints these walls of mine "home".

I am not entirely fragmented.
My ankles may weaken
And my spine my stiffen
And static might overwrite my thoughts
When the sun retires,
But against everything, I stand.

I stand.

The poles have shifted, the tide retreats from the shore!
Shanty lines revised and rehearsed
upon a crumpled paper covered with speckled dirt,
to make a lasting impact at the foot of the blackened hearse.

Does she hear me, this woman trapped in portrait?
The frame it yields and shakes mid rotation,
teetering back and forth as a compass without
magnetism, in circles as a ship lost to the starless night.

The painted woman with her knowing smile bores
her eyes into mine, her flashing irises projecting
from her world into ours, from her reality into mine.

My eyes blur and a vision dances for me,
a water color flow, with daisy tunes lost
in a shimmering and shifting mist,
swirling colors bear together, mixing and connecting,
rubbing and repelling, crossing my eyes in its intoxicating motion.

My mouth slacks and my shoulders sag,
lost in the trance of this melting scene,
and it’s dragging pull.

Excited I ran to show them, to show what I saw,
but they didn’t listen, to them I speak in gibberish.
I smirk and feel my face begin to melt, my ears drooping and my nose falling, the drops fall
and a puddle begins to form under my feet,
before dribbling slowly down the drain on the floor,
In a watercolor swirl.

maybe not looking like i would
             not sounding like i would
             not moving like i would
but
i am until
i found myself