Tortured are their portraits,
Hanging.
A few undusted for many years.
And depicting scenes,
Of a life fantasized as serene and innocent.
Free of mystery and mystique.
Tortured are their portraits,
Tilted as if purposedly.
Tilted as if the feelings of being jilted,
By false portrayals stay as they are as reminders.
None seem to be hung centered.
As if set by one in a stupor.
Or hungover from too much reality.
With framed portraits depicting tortured scenes,
Of a crisp and pristined life...
On canvas and documented for authenticity.
But can not be quite lived right to such perfection.
And...
Suicidal,
For those making attempts to do it!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem