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-

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