Painted in the Mirror

Look around and you’ll see
the gallery of the make believe.
See the different masterpieces that surround?
Each created by a different inspired mind.

Everyone is creative.

Know thyself?
Or know the image painted for the world?
One look in the mirror, can one see the brush strokes?
“The mask that grins and lies”, Dunbar’s words not mine.

Everyone is inventive.

Where there is hurt, a lovely shade of yellow covers
it from those who would see, like the sun,
but with a dash of bubble gum pink to distract
from the shadow underneath.

Everyone is resourceful.

The flaws are cleaned with a sleek angelic
white, and the fear hidden in a piercing demonic red.
Warning: a mini portrait of the apocalypse just under
the surface over one’s likeness.

Everyone is capable.

Anger and hate require a deep layers of soothing
blue, like the sea. Who is being convinced?
Add a gentle mint to quell the darkness, as the vastness swallows.
Others won’t know to see.

Everyone is ingenious.

Hopes and dreams—the old dry chipped paint— often
painted over, the color is never quite right.
Self-justifications try to console.  The brush drops.
We know the truth.

Everyone is practical.

That dream cloud hovering over the head,
aura of destiny, whispering memory,
it too takes a different shape, and the heart is painted
a steel cold gray, few gain access to this vault.

Everyone is sensible.

The painting in the mirror stares back,
barricade to the truth that lies behind.
A prisoner of shades, casting shadows on the eyes,
the glimmers of stained glass in an empty church.

Everyone is art.

But who is the artist?



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