"The Self Portrait"
The ridges of my hands are the mountains in my portrait.
My ears are the echoes of the birds.
My mouth the entrance to the poor man's cave,
And my hair a paddock of weeping willows cast by the sun of my smile.
The trees are my fingertips,
The calls of the forests my hands,
Palms the tracks of the ancient brawls,
And back the wall of the sky.
The rounded shoulders of my person are the falls of an insightful stream,
And 'tis I the star upon the peak of Earth,
That twinkles in every dream.
The rains of tears,
Sparks of flames,
Driblets of an everlasting thought,
Non-terminating,
Persistent in perfection of portrayal.
Purpose,
The treasure hidden in the shipwreck of imagination.
Purpose,
The clouds hidden by the overwhelming sun.
Purpose,
Stars hidden by day.
Purpose,
Its quantity is as great as the concentration of salt in the sea.
However,
Like salt in the sea,
It is rarely seen,
Only heard of.
-FMG
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