LANDESMAN
I sense myself within the lines of
a Klimt; a painting both colored and
dour. Some ashen-faced woman, standing
straight, awash in luxurious color and fabric.
-
I sense myself within the lines of a Munch.
A fearsome, twisted, grotesque face arched
to a jagged yet silent scream. The inaudible
horror of the noise a painting makes.
-
I sense myself within the lines of a Picasso,
my half-witty face bearing two eyes at the
place my mouth perhaps should be; a fabric
of clown-cloth around my shoulders, the cap
of a foolish man askew upon my head.
-
What am I to do with all these things?
Images of far-away, bleeding from within
me, trying with no explanation to pin down
who I am and what I wish to be. Alas,
like a watercolor with too weak a pigment,
I am really, really nothing at all.
I sense myself within the lines of
a Klimt; a painting both colored and
dour. Some ashen-faced woman, standing
straight, awash in luxurious color and fabric.
-
I sense myself within the lines of a Munch.
A fearsome, twisted, grotesque face arched
to a jagged yet silent scream. The inaudible
horror of the noise a painting makes.
-
I sense myself within the lines of a Picasso,
my half-witty face bearing two eyes at the
place my mouth perhaps should be; a fabric
of clown-cloth around my shoulders, the cap
of a foolish man askew upon my head.
-
What am I to do with all these things?
Images of far-away, bleeding from within
me, trying with no explanation to pin down
who I am and what I wish to be. Alas,
like a watercolor with too weak a pigment,
I am really, really nothing at all.
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