Self

Self found beneath scattered papers,Papers’ whose dialogue is from Mind’s rainfall,Paper, who prays the raindrops fall in such a pattern, left to right,To make words, whispering clouds content.

Self found in every conversation,Prompts to read through each phrase’s meaning,Highlighting Script’s tone, motifs, Anything to tell Self, who owns the soft tongue against grated teethSemicolons or periods, who does the director believe He is?

Self found in paintings,Paintings of cold calls, quiet warmth, in paintings that echo through irises,Paintings that stop at the tip of a stained nose,Found, Painters brush clumped by a thumb,Black canvas’s vacancy invites the doubt of whites and golds. 

Self found in mirrors,Wrinkles at Mouth’s corner, proof of conversations regretted -- burned pink by hot salt. In the hair that was not grown years prior, hair that could’ve caught words slipped,One hand wrinkled, sculpted and stained by careless strokes, the other blank with Action’s emptiness, not by newborn’s innocence,But by bystanders indifference. 

Five lines smudged down where Face’s reflection used to be. 

Self beyond the actions received and thrown at those defined,Self tied to eyelids and spine,Not waiting for the next days portrait to finish,Curling a skull back by eyelids,Forced to watch the day pass, knowing Neck will nag at night.

Self is the only one,Stuck waiting to translate every nightly shower,Selflessly.