Vanity confronting truth

So, 

this is truth, who has arrested me,

just when I was  trying to escape?

She holds me fast

and forces me to think.

The hairs start rising on my nape.

The artist is a master of 3 D.

I’m gripped

by the illusion;

she reaches out to me.

If truth is beauty,

beauty truth,

what hope remains for those of us

who have let go their youth.

The artist leaves behind no name

and yet his work survives by standing here.

Perhaps she paints herself,

and thus lives on for ever more;

or maybe he, in jest,

immortalised his whore.

My vanity requires that I dwell here.

Let me be famous, not an empty skull;

admired by my friends

and everyone who feels my pull.

I see your face.

It shines astonishingly bright.

I see your face is shining

Even in the confines of my dreams at night.

Is this a Goddess that I see before me,

fingering the frame above my head.

Wait.

I do not see myself.

The mirror just reflects the skull instead.

There’s only darkness where there should be light.

The deepest darkness sits

where I  should find the very brightest light.

That can’t be right.

I’m so afraid that truth

will find me light weight on her scales,

I have reflected me within the picture frame.

I truly think that this might work,

if my poor poem fails.

Copyright      nick owen