deepundergroundpoetry.com

Self Portrait

�Hastily sketched, never filled in,� my portrait on display.
As passers-by somewhere, some when, look but go on their way.
An image etched upon the mind holds me frozen in place.
The how and why not so unkind as the �who� who lines my face.

Forty plus years, slave to the grind, I�ve had not time to spare�
To look in eyes, to hug, to hold, or even say, �I care.�
Nor claim with tears, from ties that bind, one heartfelt obligation,
As soft white lies, both dark and cold, held me in isolation.

My safety net, I honed it well while no others could find me.
All those days spent within the hell of passions that defined me.
The blood now let, I wake alone, if but an apparition
In slow descent from the high throne I dared to call ambition.

The piercing eyes no longer there, given way to vexation,
I trudge along the littered path of guilted rumination.
The deemed fair prize I stand to bear, if damned by my own choices;
The right and wrong and muddled wrath heard in yesterday�s voices.

The gallantry of memory, achievements tossed the void.
A gallery of misery� of love and life destroyed�
Of time unkept, and chances swept away with hopes unspoken,
All while I slept and Solace wept for that in me yet broken.

�
Michael Anderson