The milky worlds/ the pale grey islands;
Parallel worlds/ set in a jagged universe.
Frantic strokes make a human face/
Partially hidden by rough overgrown hair.
That cuts through the stagnant atmosphere;
Kept alive by vacuums in the chest.
A pallid look is upon the artist’s face;
As if he is a stranger to himself.
His two identities/ residing on barren grey islands.
Searching forever, for some understanding;
Finding no peace, in what knowledge is gained.
The artist’s portrait,
The self portrait;
Dancing lines connected and freestanding.
Constantly moving,
Rearranging and growing or shrinking.
The portrait rendered is a mere impression;
Pulled from experience with oneself.
What truth is there to be found?
Is that the portrait is a mere snapshot,
A look into a doppelgangers eyes.
The milky white worlds/ grey islands and sole inhabitants.
The spider limbs/ vacuum chests;
And pallid stare.
The self portrait betrays the ideal self,
In favor of a far greater truth.
The work never finished;
The final truth never grasped.
The lessons continuous;
And the portrait ever aging.