Self-Portrait

I

In his eyes
you can see it,
a wound reaching
deep down
into an abysmal place
that opens
to an infinite sky.

II

I was invisible
until she saw me,
the woman I erected
with words and shadows,
the woman whose eyes
are a luminescent ink,
woman, my double,
with a sly smile caressing my ache
only to ignite my longing for her –
her – an imaginary being
blessed by a suffering she sweetly calls –
poetry.

3 thoughts on “Self-Portrait

    1. Which reminds me of this quote for Soren Kierkegaard: “What is a poet? An unhappy man who conceals profound anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so fashioned that when sighs and groans pass over them they sound like beautiful music. His fate resembles that of the unhappy men who were slowly roasted by a gentle fire in the tyrant Phalaris’ bull—their shrieks could not reach his ear to terrify him, to him they sounded like sweet music.”

      Liked by 1 person

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