Still Lives Suddenlies rushing, breeze; Moments entomb me, these Million marching ants cross My heart and each seems lost But knows his part of me. Still lives melt asunder; Reacting oils under Nails make right our framing Angles to contain them, But clawing crowds plunder Our portraits, throwing down What captions had made sound True. Somehow, crowds undo What was stretched and come to Nudes playing the foreground. What now? The artist less His mask, he must confess At once to lovers long Repressed and strangers, songs His face never expressed. Share:ShareClick to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pocket (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on Reddit (Opens in new window)Click to share on Skype (Opens in new window)Click to share on Telegram (Opens in new window)Click to share on Tumblr (Opens in new window)Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window) Related December 7, 2014 Categories: Poetry