Is it my face I see in mirror, broken,
Or is it portraits of the women passed
From yesterday into the future, token
Of painfully surcharged, surpassing blast.

Is it my four leaf clover in reflexion
Reversed for others’ sake, for me, a curse,
Triumphant path, meandering perplexion
Drawn cautiously onto a sordid verse.

Is it a liquid scar or flowing river,
Converging droplets, blood and dew alike,
Conglomerated salted crystals, sliver
To keep in place the wooden, rotten dyke.

Is it a book with thinned-out pages, stained
By finger tips aged in tobacco shrivel?
Layers of dust, of desert’s sand, acclaimed
To be all else, but pregnant’s rushed-out scribble.

It is my oval feature that is hanging
To round and liven walls in squares shaped…
How lucky, am I not?, in dreadful longing,
To have my pulsing-self in canvass caped.