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
