Portrait - Poem by Braden Coucher
In my portrait
there are flutes asunder cellos
and a sunken sullen jade
behind the film of my
growing from the widow’s peak
are wrinkles, dead giveaway
of my masking.
But just believable behind
the smile are thoughts inaccessible
by even me,
only captured in sepia or camera’s aperture.
There are deep minor notes, long as days
and quiet as the tinnitus in my left ear.
Who am I looking at over my shoulder
but me peering into my own portrait,
winking secrets of the captured past moment?
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