I measure every Canvas -with introspected eyes-
I wonder if it will fit- my beautiful Disguise.
I wonder if Some see the beauty-or just what it’s worth-
like a secret recipe -A Painter can not explain the birth-
I wonder- when my brushes have piled- Some thousands in a box-
That hurt Them deeply, like a child- can They have a talk?
could They go on bleeding-Through Planks of Wood-
Onto the White Canvas-In contrast with the Red-
Death- draws to the eye “is but one- and comes but once”-
I note that Some- understand, waiting for the kill-
A bigger Picture- a Canvas- with so little to fill
My Canvas is painted- painted Red- from a thing They call “Pain”
There is but one look in closed eyes- the look of Vain
I do not guess-Though correctly-
I am correct- there is Comfort in my Canvas
I hope to Connect.
Note the Canvas-the Canvas of Life-
And how it is painted-Ready to disguise-